After that it seemed that Craven was always turning up, always buying drinks, always suggesting dinner. Gray at first assumed only that the man was a lonely soul, a little confounded by life, a little enamored of the romance of an artist's existence in Paris. On Saturday they toured the local galleries, on Monday they walked the Louvre.

Then came Friday with a piano recital in the evening. Once again Craven suggested dinner, and again Gray could not seem to find a way out. So they wandered into a back-street restaurant, a forgotten place between a seaman's hostel and the river. The waitress was a quite lovely-looking girl with rich blonde hair, but even when ordering dinner Craven kept an eye on the door. There were other signs: Craven requested a table at the rear, then sat with his back to the wall.

"Funny thing happened to me the other day," he began. "I ran into that model of yours."

Gray had been picking at a chicken's thigh, hardly listening. "What model?"

"Oh you know, the girl in your portrait."

He realized that his hand was shaking and put it out flat on the table. "You saw her?"

"At a benefit for the Russian fund. She danced. And was actually quite good."

Gray lit a cigarette, fumbling with the match. "If you like that sort of thing."

"Oh but I do." Craven smiled. "Although I can't say much for her escort."

"Huh?"

"French chap. Military. A Colonel Rolland Michard."

Gray said nothing. I'm the eye of the dawn, she had once told him. I'll always come back.

"But then I don't suppose I have to tell you about Michard, do I?"

Another cigarette while the first was still burning—"What makes you say that?"

"Well the little cad took her away from you, didn't he?"

"Did he?"

"So they say. Outbid you, as it were. Which I imagine must have been rather frustrating."

For a moment Gray only looked at the man, vaguely conscious that he had stained his cuff, and felt a chill. "Who are you?"

"Who am I? Let me put it like this. I don't actually work for a bank, and I'm not altogether certain that Rolland Michard is a loyal French officer."

They walked after that, ending up at the river once again. A fog moved in, distorting the clang of a distant bell and the echo of a passing barge.

"You've been lying to me all along, haven't you," Gray finally said. "Lying and stringing me along."

"Oh, I don't know, Nicky. I do admire your work."

Closer to the water there were odors of tar and debris, the drifting carcass of a gull. "We would like you to do a job, Nicky. One job. We don't expect it will take much time, and it should be fairly satisfying, particularly in view of the fact that Rolland Michard is a pig."