"You're going to start with a letter to Michard," Craven said. "You're going to apologize for your behavior the other night. You're going to tell him that you had too much to drink. You're also going to tell him that you've changed your mind about his portrait. You'd be honored if he'd consent to pose for you . . . but you want to paint him in his library. That's critical. He's got to let you into his world."

Gray had moved to the window. The light was bad—one sputtering gas jet. He drew the curtains back and a long strip of rotten muslin came off in his hand. "What makes you think this will work?"

"Because Michard is vain, and quite foolish."

There seemed to be someone watching from a doorway below, a figure in a sailor's coat. Gray couldn't see the face, only the glowing tip of a cigarette. London has sent us a few lads for tactical support, Craven had said earlier. But you’ll never see them.

"What happens after he . . . takes the bait?" Gray asked.

"Then you'll probably have a filthy glass of cognac in his filthy little library."

"What do I do about Zelle?"

"Stay away from her. As far as Michard is concerned the woman is your friend, nothing more. You might even hint that you've found someone else—a proper English girl."

Despite popular notions of adventurous gentlemen in a black-tie world, the early twentieth century game was not all that different from the game today. Agents approached their targets with a polite succession of quiet steps. The artistry was subtle, a discreet manipulation of unwitting people . . .

After six hanging days Gray received a reply from Michard. Then, as predicted, he returned to that library for a glass of excellent cognac. Against his role as the contrite young painter, the colonel played the forgiving patron. They even discussed Michard's portrait, including the esthetic advantage of a seated pose. "You must paint me as you see me," Michard said. At this point Gray hardly knew what he saw: Suave traitor? Vain fool? Poor bastard?

Just as Gray was preparing to leave, Margaretha appeared. "I'm so glad that you and Rolland are friends again," she whispered in Gray's ear. But instead of a kiss, she merely extended her hand.

Two days later he began the preliminary sketches. Arriving just after nine o'clock in the morning, he found Michard already posing in uniform, a riding crop in his hand, an open book of poetry on his knee.

As counterpoint to the first few sittings with Michard were the furtive meetings with Craven. Usually Gray met him after dark, either in that dismal room above the brewery or else in some equally remote corner of the city . . .

"Has he told you about his bloody horses yet?"

"No."

"Has he asked you out to his wretched château?"

"No."

"But he keeps offering you drinks, right? Is friendly?"

"Yes."

"Then keep it up. You're doing fine."