He took a mouthful of beer. Worstead’s reaction had showed that he was guilty as hell, he thought. He had him now.

“Pugh is blackmailing you, isn’t he? Forty marks a month, I gather. He’s blackmailing you because of something he saw in Berlin a long time ago. I don’t blame you for what it was, but I blame you for allowing the Germans to make use of you.

“It’s all right, Andrew, you don’t have to lie to me anymore. I expect you’ve been lying all your life. Lying to me in Crete about your bad luck with the ladies, when all the time you were probably fancying the shepherd boys. For all I know it’s why you joined the army—all those men.”

“Just…just…stop!”

“No, Andrew, I won’t. I want to know why you’re doing it. I want to know why you’re betraying your country; why you’re betraying an old friend. There are plenty like you—I saw it at school—and those who continued with it after school kept it quiet, but it wasn’t enough to turn them into traitors.”

“Perhaps it is,” said Worstead.

He was crying now, tears wetting his cheeks. Lockhart looked at him. The poor bugger. It wasn’t funny anymore, but pathetic, sad.

“Is it really?” Lockhart asked.

Worstead took his napkin and blew his nose into it. The tears were really flowing now.

“Oh yes!”

“Why, Andrew? Tell me why.”

“You’ve no bloody idea what it’s like. You’ll never know what it’s like. You’re so lucky, John, so damn fucking lucky. You don’t know how it feels to be hiding something all your life, hiding something so important, so big. It tears you apart. I never told a soul, and all the time I hated the system that meant that I couldn’t. I hated everybody, everything, hated Britain—bloody uptight Britain. And I hated you, you especially.”

“Me?”

“Yes—you, and Anna.”

“Why us?”

“Because you had it all. Brains, looks, money, each other—all the things that I knew I’d never have. And you looked down on me, thought I was a joke figure, the ‘wheezing windbag,’ I heard that….”

“We were just children….”

“It makes no difference. It hurts more the younger you are.”

“I am sorry, Andrew, but—”

“Don’t apologize! It’s all…”

As Worstead drew breath to continue, the waitress appeared.

“Are you…are you…” she began, a little disconcerted by the sight of Worstead. “Would you like to order?”

“No thank you, Fräulein,” said Lockhart. “Perhaps you could come back in a few minutes?”

She nodded, gave Worstead one more vexed look, and then turned on her heel.

“All right, Andrew,” said Lockhart. “Carry on.”

Worstead didn’t speak.