A door opened on his left and a shaft of warm yellow light fell out at his feet. ‘In ’ere.’ The white-haired man beckoned. Bannerman went through the door and found himself in a sprawling, cluttered sitting room filled with cumbersome articles of old-fashioned furniture. A sofa, two well-worn easy chairs, a writing desk, bookshelves, walls hung with landscapes and portraits. A fire burned in a large stone fireplace and Lord Armsdale sat beside it, languid and relaxed, in one of the easy chairs. He was pulling gently on the stem of a pipe, blue smoke lingering in the air above him. The eyes that gazed out from his lean, lined face twinkled sadly as they turned towards Bannerman.

‘Take a seat, Mr Bannerman. Will you have tea?’

‘Thank you, no.’ Bannerman sank into the softness of the chair opposite and felt strangely at home in this warm and friendly room. It was a lived-in place. Nothing pretentious here. Just comfort. Lord Armsdale surveyed Bannerman shrewdly for some seconds.

‘Would I be right in thinking I know what you are here to talk to me about?’

Bannerman nodded almost imperceptibly. ‘Probably.’

The old man glanced beyond him towards the white-haired man who had remained by the open door. ‘That’ll be all, Arthur, thank you.’

Arthur turned reluctantly and pulled the door shut behind him. Lord Armsdale went on puffing on his pipe, lost in a gentle euphoria of smoke and thought. At length he said, ‘He has been with me a long time, my Arthur. Almost from the start. A good man. Gardener, chauffeur, general factotum. He carried my messages for me, found the right men for the right jobs. Trusts me implicitly. Always has. In a way I suppose I have let him down, too. He worked in the mines when he was a boy. I wonder how he will manage without me. I think, perhaps, he needs me as much as I have needed him.’

He looked at Bannerman as he emerged from his reverie. ‘I have been expecting someone since I heard the news yesterday. I had no idea who it might be, but in a way I suppose I should have guessed it would be you. I have heard that you are very good.’ He paused again to take comfort in his pipe. ‘At the beginning I took a great many precautions, you know. I thought it was foolproof. But then, when it went wrong, the business of the child, I think I knew that somehow it would end this way.’

He pointed the stem of his pipe at Bannerman.

‘But please, don’t get me wrong. I regret none of it. Only that I have failed. That by my own actions I have put the party I love in peril. As well as the government that has brought light to the darkness of many lives.’ He seemed emotionless, almost tranquil. ‘Will the child live or die?’

‘I don’t know.’