George Drummond-Smith emerged from one of the chambers. The fellow fairly burst from the room, as was his wont, a bulldog of a man, barrel-chested, with a vast plain of a forehead and a skull that was all bone and no flesh at all. He sported an immense walrus moustache on a scale to rival that of the Premier’s own and had such bulging, staring eyes one’s natural inclination was to step back as though one had stumbled across some brutish hound, chained and slavering, at the gate of a house one had intended to visit. And once Drummond-Smith had got your scent in his nose he did not let go.

He had got Alasdair’s scent.

‘Because Reid departed by train at dawn. Selling Federation to the northern townships—Murwillumbah, Lismore, Byron, Grafton, those sorts of places—and he took Rothe with him. You didn’t know?’ And with an amused smile Drummond-Smith leaned against a conveniently placed bust of William Wentworth. ‘Had you arranged a meeting with him? Ah, I see. You imagined the Premier would take you with him on his Tour of the Regions? How priceless.’

Alasdair had stood perfectly still as Drummond-Smith spoke these words. Now he advanced on the man. He had not realised how tightly wound he was. Felt his fingers clench into a fist, the air around them both growing hot then cold.

‘Careful, Drummond-Smith. You sail too close to the wind.’

Drummond-Smith lifted his chin a little, fixing him with an appraising eye. ‘Indeed? How so?’

‘Do not come the fool. You have played with fire. Do so again, you will get burned.’

Drummond-Smith let out a shout of laughter. ‘Two clichés and a threat! Priceless. And you, Dunlevy, are the fire? How absurd you sound.’

No doubt he was absurd but, oddly, it seemed not to matter. Alasdair’s thoughts, at this moment, seemed extraordinarily clear. I am ready for what he says next, thought Alasdair.

Though, of course, he was not.

‘Your dear wife,’ said Drummond-Smith, stroking his monstrous moustache, ‘how is she? I thought she was looking a little unwell last night, even before that preposterous incident with that chap and his toy gun.’

For a moment their eyes locked. Alasdair saw the little vignette at the Premier’s reception last night. He saw Eleanor standing with Judd and Pyke and this man, Drummond-Smith, at her elbow, at her ear—saying what?

It was Drummond-Smith whose gaze dropped first. But only so he might turn his gaze on another.

‘Well, now, here’s a sorry tale,’ he murmured just loud enough for his words to reach the ears of Leon Jellicoe, who had escaped the throng of pressmen and was now crossing the lobby.