Tharkay caught his eye, and said low, ‘He has horses,’ with a jerk of his head at Woolvey: a suggestion Laurence did not like in the least. He saw no better alternative however, despite his intense reluctance to put his life, all their lives, in Woolvey's hands; and he did not trust the discretion of Woolvey's servants.

They remained standing in silence, except for the continuing low snuffles of Sutton-Leeds' snoring. A maid brought the coffee service, and took a long while arranging it on the table, covertly glancing up at them all. They made an absurd gathering: Woolvey in his evening-dress; Edith in a soft highwaisted morning gown of sprigged muslin, without stays. Tharkay and himself, in their rough workman's clothes, all smudged with dirt and stinking, no doubt, of cattle and the docks.

‘Thank you, Martha,’ Edith said at last, ‘I will pour,’ and bent over the table when the maid had gone. She handed cups to Woolvey and Laurence; hesitated a moment, and then finally poured another for Tharkay.

Tharkay smiled with a faint twist at her doubtful gesture towards him. ‘Thank you,’ he said, and drank the coffee quickly. Setting down the cup he went to the door and opened it again. The maid and footman caught lingering outside made quick shift to vanish. Tharkay glanced back at Laurence and at the clock, meaningfully, then slipped into the hall, closing the door behind him: no one would be able to eavesdrop now.

Laurence put down his cup of excellently strong coffee, and looked at the window casement, framed with thick curtains of pale blue velvet, with elegant gold tasselled cords. He had the unreasonable desire to smother Woolvey with one of them, and leave him trussed on the floor while they fled; but of course he would begin to shout at once, and Laurence could not put Edith in such a position.

‘Well?’ Woolvey said. ‘I am not going to be put off, Laurence, and if you keep me waiting any longer I'll have my footmen put you in the cellar, and there let you sit until morning.’

Laurence pressed his lips together on the instinctive answers he wished to make. He was aware he was being unjust. Woolvey had no more reason to love him than the reverse, and no reason to believe him either. ‘We do not have until morning,’ he said, at last, shortly. ‘Earlier today a British officer was captured, a dragon captain—’

‘What of it? I hear ten thousand men were captured yesterday.’ Woolvey spoke bitterly and with real feeling: one sentiment Laurence could at least share.

‘It means that his beast is also taken prisoner,’ Laurence said. ‘He is hostage for her good behaviour; and his beast is our fire-breather—Our only fire-breather.’

‘Oh,’ Edith said, suddenly. ‘I saw her this afternoon. She came down in Hyde Park.’