“She’s not well, Harry,” Mrs Bannister repeated, when he asked to see Esther. There was an arrogant finality in her voice which marked a new stage in their relationship. “I don’t want her to meet anyone.”

“I’ll bet you don’t,” he answered – but he did not speak aloud. There was a temptation to lay all cards upon the table, but he could not quite bring himself to do so. He looked at Mrs Bannister – at this smooth, tough, competent woman who was surely the mainspring of the whole horrible racket. On her appearance, he could not fault her: she was as well turned-out, as well made-up, as well presented as she had ever been. She looked as though she knew she was actively enjoying this warm summer morning: enjoying it because she knew she could handle it, and him, and everything else, with complete, exclusive authority.

Only her eyes, which seemed to notice every move and take account of every shadow, had a jungle awareness which betrayed her fear.

“Where’s everybody?” Grant asked.

Mrs Bannister smiled briefly, a smile so mirthless and so brittle it might have cracked the corners of her mouth.

“Still asleep, I guess,” she answered. “You know what these big meetings are like.”

“I wanted a follow-up story on last night.”

“It’ll keep … Why not take a walk, Harry? Fresh air will do you good.”

“Can I see Esther after lunch?”

“Maybe. But I want her to have a real, long sleep … Tomorrow would be better.”

They were staring at each other now: wary, circling like animals that fear the final grapple. Grant remembered his crude words of last night – “I know – cut out the crap – I know” – and they were on the edge of his tongue again; but he could not use them, could not take the plunge into the mire. He wanted to think, he wanted to talk to Ryan.

He said, instead: “OK, then – see you later,” and made for the door. He felt and walked like a retreating coward.

Mrs Bannister watched him all the way, steel-eyed, as if a single false step would be his doom, and her finger were poised over the button. It was a relief to have the closed door as a shield for his back.

Grant walked out of the hotel as he was, leaving his baggage and his room intact, and drove to La Guardia, and caught the noon plane for Boston.

Ryan, the news editor of the Star-Telegram, did not blink an eyelid while Grant told him his story. He was not surprised at what he heard: he had not been surprised for thirty years, he had lost the capacity. Surprise was for other people – for the readers of newspapers. Of course, he believed instantly what Harry Grant was telling him. He believed, firstly, because he trusted Grant and knew he was a good newspaperman. But principally he believed his story because it was the sort of thing that was always true.