He had had some vague idea of ‘rescuing’ her. Suppose she did not want to be rescued, by him or anyone else, and in fact looked on him as an enemy?

Suppose he were his own enemy as well? He had got on to a good story: the best that had ever come his way. If he broke it, he would break Esther as well. He loved her, and there was a war going on inside his head, a war of love against the story. He knew that the story would win, because he was that sort of man, in that sort of job. But the contest was a near thing, and he hoped with all his soul that the story might somehow be published without shaming and destroying Esther.

Ryan had had the same idea. In spite of his tough armour, Ryan was a man of compassion; and when he had said: ‘We want to do it just right,’ that had been one of the things he had meant. If it were humanly possible, he wanted Grant to break the story, and rescue and absolve Esther at the same time. It could be done – but only if she had become party to this fraud because of some unspeakable duress. It was tied up with that missing word, the buried motive that he could only discover by talking to Esther.

He turned to the bar again, and ordered another drink. Then the door swung open, and a man walked in, unsteadily: a middle-aged sagging man with a face as rumpled as his suit. It was someone Grant knew well – Al Stevens, the Star-Telegram’s staff drunk. By the look of him, he was not out of character, at that moment.

Grant said: “Hi, Al …” and Al Stevens blinked at him, and answered, for some reason: “Shame on you, Harry.” It fitted in so well with what Grant himself was thinking that he felt his face flushing. But it was only old Al Stevens, aiming at some target within his own muddled head.

“Have a drink, Al,” he said uncomfortably.

“Too early,” answered Stevens, and almost in the same breath, to the barman: “Two Scotch. On the rocks.”

The drinks slid deftly across the counter: two tumblers, ice-filled, two jiggers of whisky, a glass of water for a chaser. Stevens raised his, sucked half of it down, and blinked at Harry again. “Cheer up, kid! You’re still on the payroll, aren’t you? What’s new?”

“Nothing much.” Grant, sipping his drink, stared at Al Stevens. He liked the other man, but he hoped he would never come to match him. This was where you ended up, if you drank too much and fell down on your assignments. Stevens had fallen down once, years ago, spectacularly: he had become tangled up with a girl in London, and had missed (among other things) a possible scoop on Edward VIII’s abdication. He had got drunk to cure it, and had been the same way ever since. Harry Grant hoped he would never fall down on a story like that.