He had dinner with us that evening, we spoke nothing of politics or of what he was doing. He was deferential and polite in everything he did, towards the children — he asked them the usual questions about school, about their activities — and towards the servants (of course). The children liked visitors, we didn’t have that many, and they boasted about their small achievements: the swim team, the ballet, the A+ grades in school. And then, Howard and I, and he, had a drink in the living room. Or, Howard and I had a drink, he said he didn’t drink, he’d have a lime juice and soda, which Emily brought from the kitchen. I barely drank, I don’t drink now, and Howard had a glass of wine occasionally, a whisky if he had a guest. We sat, I remember, in the dim, green room — how I loved that room — it was lamp-lit. My living room in New York is a lot like it, perhaps I made it the same. I had some old, small paintings on the walls I had picked up here and there, landscapes mostly, in muted colours. Not my own work.

There were the ochre-coloured and pale-green patterns on the couches, faded. His glasses — Joseph’s glasses — flashed a little in the lamplight as he spoke. Howard was more subdued in his mood than usual, not joking much. I smiled at our guest. Our guest?

You’ll be fine, I said. The room is quite safe, no one knows it’s there, at the end of the garden, under the trees.

He told us he wouldn’t come into the house again, and thank you, thank you, many times, he said.

HOWARD TOOK a flashlight and called Josias, and we walked, the four of us, down to the room, through the dark garden. The light pooled and wavered in front of us. We were silent. I’d never been down to the end of our garden at night. I thought, then, of its dark beauty and stillness, its breath held. Joseph carried one small suitcase. I thought to myself, what circumstances for this man. Howard continued quieter than usual, no doubt he felt as I did. What Josias thought, I have no idea.

Please, don’t trouble yourselves with the meals, he said. If you bring me bread, something, once a day, I’ll be fine. My comrades will bring food at night when they come. They can come through the back gate, the backyard? The servants know that? I’ll tell them, I said. I had a feeling of unease.

But . . . the dogs, I said. What about the dogs? Josias kept the dogs locked in the yard at night. They weren’t watchdogs: they barked at night if they heard people on the street, but not much. They were friendly. Chester especially, the Labrador, was friendly. I’ll bring the dogs down tomorrow morning, I said. To introduce you. I laughed then, and Joseph laughed too. Josias, I remember, nodded, he thought that was a good idea.