Dunbar's life never really returned to normal after that evening in Manchester Square. Odd things kept happening. On the following Tuesday Dunbar discovered that an inquiry had been made regarding his financial standing. Next it seemed that someone had been tampering with his mail, particularly letters from abroad. Finally, on a warm Sunday afternoon, he distinctly sensed that someone had followed him from Saint James's to the National Gallery. Twice he caught the reflection of a nondescript man in a shop window, then thought he saw him watching from the edge of a crowd: a gentleman, judging by the clothing, definitely not the police.

In all probability none of these events would have added up to much had Dunbar never seen Southerland again. As it happened, however, only ten days passed before he found the man waiting at his club—once more sipping dry champagne, once more extraordinarily friendly. And curious.

They dined on chops and a decent claret, finished with sherbet and a marvelous brandy. Although nothing of obvious importance was said, without Allenby's presence the conversation somehow seemed more meaningful, intimate. They talked about their respective families and childhoods, about their respective notions of duty, and of honor. They talked about England and a tangible naval threat to the nation.

It was a matter of sacrifice, Southerland said. Was the twentieth century Englishman still willing to make a fifteenth century sacrifice, such as was made at Agincourt. Of course the question was rhetorical and Dunbar was not expected to answer. But the essential theme was clear: how far should a young man go in the service of his nation?

It was a balmy night, with a scent of damp lawns and summer roses. For a time the two men seemed to walk aimlessly, first along the Serpentine, then gradually deeper into the hedgerows. They spoke softly, sometimes with a dormitory whisper of youth. They occasionally poked at the ivy and kicked discarded bottles. Time seemed suspended with select reminders of childhood: the Round Pond in moonlight, clumps of seeding thistles and foxglove, a night bird in the shrubbery. There were even allusions to a child's dream of a secret society with a cloistered den somewhere in Richmond.

"Technically we're under the Admiralty," Southerland began. "But naturally our jurisdiction extends beyond all that . . . which is why we're interested in your chap."

"My chap?"

"Rudolph Spangler."

They had reached the broad lawns where Dunbar had once imagined escorting Zelle, perhaps in the rain with a black umbrella.

"He's been in the picture a long time," Southerland went on. "Mostly on the continent, and against the Frogs. You're the first one, though, who's actually dined with him. And lived to tell about it."

"But I don't know much," Dunbar said. "I mean, it was really just a social occasion. Anyway, Margaretha isn't a politically minded woman."

"No?"

"She likes soldiers, that's all. Likes the uniform. I suppose you could call it a fixation of sorts."