He found her in the morning on the terrace. It was a warm day, a reminder of July in early December. There was coffee in a blue pot, pastries, and Italian grapes. Since Michard seemed in better spirits, Zelle was happy. She laughed at everything.

After breakfast she insisted that Gray accompany her into the forest. They chose one of the narrow paths between the ferns and the riverbed. There were long shafts of bottle-green light, a budding grove of larkspur. Along a deer track she took his hand, brief contact that left a lingering impression for hours.

But like a blow repeatedly falling on the same bruise, the night was filled with reminders that she was still the coloner’s woman. "Pour this old soldier another glass of wine," he would tell her, and then, turning to Gray: "Look at her eyes, Nicky. Doesn't she have marvelous eyes?"

In the morning there was fog, a low fog, like water between the pines. Half a mile from his rented farmhouse Craven was waiting on a fallen log—the the very model of an adaptable British spy. He wore country tweeds and carried a walking stick. He had also brought a flask of brandy.

"No problem slipping away?"

Gray shrugged. "They're still asleep."

"What about the cook?"

"Asleep."

At first there were only forest sounds here: running water and the cries of unseen birds. Then there were footsteps on the sodden leaves and voices from the deeper wood.

"Your people?" Gray asked, suddenly uneasy.

Craven nodded. "Poor lads have been at it night and day. But they're still keen, very keen for this one."

"I think I saw them earlier, from the gate through the trees."

"Yes, well naturally we've—"

"And if I saw them, you can be damn sure that Michard has seen them."

Side by side on a fallen log, they began to pass the brandy: Craven pretending to drink, Gray hung over from the night before.

"Incidentally, we think we've located their meeting place. A little hunting lodge just south of the estate. It's also possible that Spangler is already on his way. Nothing definite, but do keep your eyes open, eh?"

"How do you think he'll come?"

"As something humble, I should imagine. A farmer perhaps, maybe a tinker."

"On horseback?"

“Possibly.”

"Armed?"

Craven laid his hand on Gray's knee. "It's not as if we haven't played this game before, Nicky. Both my lads have had quite a bit of experience."

Gray looked at him. "Michard has a shotgun. And he bloody well knows how to use it."

There was rain in the afternoon and a cold wind from the north. While Margaretha slept, Gray played a game of chess with Michard. But between the wind and ticking clocks he could not seem to concentrate. Then, too, Michard was a fanatic about the game.

"You must learn to employ your rooks, Nicky. The rook is vital."

"Yes, I suppose you're right."