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little raw. "Over six feet tall, broad-shouldered, powerful. He has thick, graying hair, and strong features. He was a fine athlete as a young man." His words were full of praise, and yet he said them as if he had to make himself do it, a matter of justice rather than desire. For some inner reason of his own he was compelled to be fair.

"Do you know him, sir?" Pitt asked, then instantly wished he had not, although it was a necessary question. There was something in Narraway's face which told him he had intruded.

"I know everyone," Narraway replied. "It is my job to know them. It is your job too. I am told that Mr. Gladstone desires us to keep Mr. Ryerson's name out of the case, if it is humanly possible. He has not specified how it is to be done, and I assume he does not wish to know."

Pitt could not conceal his anger at the injustice of it, and he resented the implication that he should try to. "Good!" he retorted. "Then if we are obliged to tell him that it was impossible, he will not have the information to argue with us."

There was not even a flicker of humor in Narraway's face; even the usual dry irony in his eyes was absent. In some way this touched a wound in him not yet healed enough to be safe. "It is I who will answer to Mr. Gladstone, Pitt, not you. And I am not prepared to tell him that we failed, unless I can prove that it was already impossible before we began. Go and see Ryerson himself. If we are to save him, then we cannot work blindly. I need the truth, and immediately, not as it is unearthed a piece at a time by the police. Or, God help us, by the Egyptian ambassador."

Pitt was confused. "You said you knew him. Would it not be far better for you to see him? Your seniority would impress on..."

Narraway looked up, his eyes angry, his slim hand white-knuckled on top of the desk. "My seniority doesn't seem to impress you. At least not sufficiently for you to obey me without putting up an argument. I am not making suggestions, Pitt, I am telling you what to do. And I do not propose to explain myself. I am accountable to Mr. Gladstone for my success, as I will answer to him for my failure. You are accountable to me." His voice rasped. "Go and see Ryerson. I want to know everything about his relationship with Miss Zakhari in general, and that night in particular. Come back here when you can tell me, preferably tomorrow."

"Yes, sir. Do you know where I will find Mr. Ryerson at this time of day? Or should I simply make enquiries?"

"No, you will not make enquiries!" Narraway snapped, a flush in his cheeks. "You will tell no one but Ryerson himself who you are or what you want. Begin at his home in Paulton Square. I believe it is number seven."

"Yes, sir. Thank you." Pitt kept his own emotions out of his voice. He turned on his heel and went out of the room, disliking his errand but not surprised by it. The thing that confused him was that concerning a matter so important, with Gladstone involved, why Narraway did not go to see Ryerson himself. The question of being recognized by anyone did not arise. No newspaper reporters would be in Paulton Square at this hour, but even if they were, Narraway was not a public figure to be known on sight.

There must be a factor, perhaps a major one, which Narraway was not telling him, and the knowledge made him uncomfortable.

He hailed a hansom and directed it to Danvers Street, just beyond Paulton Square. He would walk the rest of the way. Since being with Special Branch he had learned a kind of carefulness in being observed. It was a precaution, no more. He disliked the secrecy of it, but he understood its worth.

By the time he had reached the first steps of number seven he had decided how to approach whoever answered Ryerson's door.

"Good morning, sir," a fair-haired footman in full livery said without interest. "How may I help you?"

"Good morning," Pitt replied, standing upright and meeting the man's eyes. "Would you be good enough to tell Mr. Ryerson that Mr. Victor Narraway sends his regards, and regrets that he is unable to call himself, but has sent me