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"Yes, and protocol and propriety and paperwork and all the other colonial rot. Go to it, Gerald. I don't care what you do, I have to get my son home. I've used my son badly in all this...."

"What?"

"Nothing. Can you work it out?"

"Yes, but Henry himself ... Have you any idea where he could be?"

In the vat of bitumen. Elliott shuddered. "No," he said. "No idea at all. But he has many enemies out there, people whom he owes money. I need another drink. Get the attention of the pretty little nitwit, will you?"

"Young Lord Summerfield," she said, gazing at his beautiful mouth, "let us banquet in my rooms. And leave this place to be alone there."

"If you wish." The inevitable flame in the cheeks. Oh, what would the rest of the young body look like? Pray there was a priapic organ there worthy of all the other charms!

"Indeed, but do you wish?" she asked him. She ran the backs of her fingers along his cheek. Then slid her fingers under the stiff cloth of his garment.

"Yes, I do," he whispered.

She led him off the dance floor, collecting her handbags as they went out of the swimming music and lights, back into the crowded grand room.

"Suite two-oh-one," she said, producing the key. "How do we find it?"

"Well, we'll just take the lift to the second floor," he said, beaming at her. "And walk to the very front of the building."

The lift? He led her towards a pair of brass gates. He pressed a small button in the wall.

A huge drawing stood between these gates: Aida, the opera. And there were the same Egyptian figures she'd seen before. "Ah, the opera," she said.

"Yes, quite an event," he said. The brass gate had opened, and a man inside the small chamber appeared to be waiting for them. She stepped inside. It was like a cage. And it frightened her suddenly. The doors clanged shut. Some sort of trap, and the room began to rise.

"Lord Summerfield," she cried.

"It's quite all right, Your Highness," he said. He threw his arms around her, and turning, she bowed her head against his chest. Oh, he was so much sweeter than all the others, and when a strong man is sweet, even goddesses look down from Mount Olympus.

At last the doors opened. He led her out and into a silent passageway. They walked towards a distant window.

"What frightened you so?" he asked. But his intonation had no mockery or disapproval. It was almost soothing. He took the key from her, and put it in the lock.

"The room moved," she sighed. "Are those not the right English words?"

"Yes, they are," he said. He paused as they entered the long sitting room, with rich hangings and chairs that looked for all the world like giant cushions. "Why, you are the strangest creature. So out of this world."

She reached out and caressed his face, and slowly kissed him. His brown eyes were troubled, suddenly. But then he kissed her back, and the sudden fire surprised her and thrilled her.

"For this night, Lord Summerfield," she said, "this is my palace; and now we must go and seek the royal bedchamber."

Elliott walked to the door of the bar with Pitfield. "I can't thank you enough for coming immediately."

"Have every confidence, old boy, and do see if you can get some word to your friend. Of course, I can't advise you to--"

"I know, I know. Let me handle that." Elliott went back into the bar, settled down into the leather chair and picked up the gin. Yes, definitely he would slowly drink himself to death when this was over.

He would go out to the country, stock the finest sherry and port and Scotch and gin, and just drink day in and day out until he was dead. It would be very simply wonderful. He saw himself there, by the great log fire, one foot on the leather ottoman. The image shimmered; then faded. The sickness rose in his throat, and he was near to breaking down completely.

"Get Alex home; get him home and safe," he whispered, and then he began to tremble almost uncontrollably. He saw her again, moving through the museum with her arms out. And then in the bed looking up at him: he felt her caress, and the bare bones in her side as she'd pressed against him. He remembered the crazed look in Ramsey's eyes when he'd fought her.

The trembling got worse. Much worse.

No one noticed in the dark bar; a pianist had come in--a young man, who began to play a slow ragtime.