“That explains a lot, I guess. I mean, why Maugham has stayed down here for so long.”

“What I want to say to you now, Walter, is this. I really can help. If there’s anything you need to know that you think you can’t ask him, then ask me. The chances are I will know something about it. Like you, I’m an admirer of his. Albeit for different reasons. You just like the man for himself, perhaps. I happen to believe he’s one of the greatest writers of the twentieth century. I know I haven’t been very honest with you about all this but for what it’s worth now, I give you my word that anything you tell me will be in confidence until after he’s dead. Or at the very least until you give me permission to use it. Is that fair?”

“I suppose so,” I murmured uncertainly. “I don’t know.”

“I’ll pay you for your help, of course.” She paused. “To cover your expenses.”

“All of a sudden there are so many people trying to pump money into me. I feel like a cigarette machine. And all of them English, too. The odd thing—to me at least—is how little I want it. Look, I’m not doing any of this for money, Anne. Not really. The old man is paying me a basic fee to help him out of a tight spot, and that’s it. And between us, well, what I’m saying is that I’d prefer there was no money at all. If I help you—and I haven’t said I will, yet—it will be because I like you and only because I like you. Nothing else. Money complicates everything. Especially between lovers.”

“Of course. I get that.”

“Do you? I wonder.”

“Look, the files are there if you need to use them. All you have to do is ask.”

“There is something I’d like to know about,” I said.

“Name it.”

“His service with SIS in nineteen seventeen. What can you tell me about that?”