Gray took a deep breath. "My God, you're some sort of a spy, aren't you. A bloody special agent . . ."

"It goes like this," Craven said, not responding directly. "As an extravagant bachelor and figure in society, Michard found himself short of funds. Rather than cutting back expenses, including a string of beautiful women, he sold himself to the highest bidder. Which unhappily seems to have been the Germans. The particulars are that we think he's controlled by a man named Spangler, and we think he's been passing them both French and Whitehall secrets."

Gray reached for the railing, feeling something sticky. Chocolate? "I don't see how any of this—"

"He's lonely, really. Lots of women, but never any genuine friends. People don't quite take him seriously, you see. No one listens to him. And he's very fond of artists."

"But he doesn't even like me—"

"Oh, we can fix that."

It seemed that the fog had become a solid wall, advancing up the river with a steady wind. "I wouldn't be asking if it wasn't vital, Nicky. If it wasn't extremely vital."

"What would I have to do?"

"Be a friend to him, become part of his circle."

"What about Zelle?"

"Well, she's your reward at the end, isn't she? Assuming you play your cards correctly."

Another passing barge sounded like someone moaning, and the gulls across the wharf might have been children crying.

"You must admit that it makes it all very simple, doesn't it?" Craven said at last. "I mean, I love England. You love Zelle. And consequently we both hate Rolland Michard. So how about it? Do you want her back?"

"But I wouldn't even know where to begin."

"We'll teach you."

A fish broke the water less than twenty feet away . . . Zelle had always believed that jumping fish were good luck.

"Besides, you love your country too, don't you? That is, apart from this dancer, you do also love England as well?"

Gray looked at him, said only, "Why didn't you come out with it from the start?"

"Because we had to be certain."

"Certain of what?"

"That you were capable, trustworthy."

"And am I?"

"Oh, I think so."

There is an overriding sense of romance to the early chronicles of Her Majesty's Secret Service, a sense of lost adventure and fascinating intrigue. The pages are filled with the exploits of young English amateurs, and although their methods may have been simplistic, their eventual success was said to have been magnificent . . . now and again.