McFay said.

"Of course, Jamie. You look hung over, old chap."

"I am. You look the same. That was some party."

"Yes. How's Malcolm?"

"Not so hot. He's one of the things I wanted to talk about." They found a table, the room smoke-filled, airless and crowded, everyone as usual in frock coats.

They were sitting at a corner table, Chinese servants carrying trays of roast beef, chicken pies, fish pies, fish soup, Cornish pasties, Yorkshire puddings, salt pork, curries and bowls of rice for the old China Hands, plus whisky, rum, gin, porter, champagne, red and white wine and tankards of beer. Fly swots laid beside every place.

McFay used the fly whisk. "Wanted to ask you to talk to Malcolm, not at my suggestion, tell him it'd be a good idea to go back to Hong Kong as soon as possible."

"But Jamie, I'm sure he will, without my saying so. He doesn't listen to me, why should he? What's up?"

"His mother. I'm afraid now that's no secret. Don't say anything but she writes by every mail ordering me to order him back--there's not a bloody thing I can do, he just won't listen and when the news of the party and his formal engagement reaches Hong Kong..." McFay rolled his eyes. "Ayeeyah! The shit will spread from here to Yedo."

In spite of McFay's seriousness Tyrer laughed. "It already has, it's stinky poo like never before. The Legation garden's knee-deep in a new dressing of prime."

"Oh?" The Scot frowned and sniffed the air.

"Hadn't noticed. How's the curry?" he asked a neighbor.

"Hot, Jamie." The man, Lunkchurch, spat a piece of chicken bone into the floor sawdust. "I'm on seconds."

Tyrer beckoned one of the waiters brushing past but the toothy youth deliberately avoided seeing him.

"Hey, Dew neh loh moh, waiter!"

McFay shouted irritably. "Curry plenty quick, heya!"

There was a shout of laughter and much jeering and catcalls at the Chinese curse words from the traders and merchants, and sour looks from the padre of the Highland Battalion who was lunching expansively with his Church of England counterpart from the Dragoons, and their own pastor.

A plate of blood-rare roast beef was plunked down vigorously in front of McFay. "Curry, Mass'er, plenty werry quick quick heya?" the young servant said, beaming.

Exasperated, McFay shoved the plate back. "This's roast beef for God's sake!

Curry, for Christ's sake, fetch CURRY!"

"I'll have the chicken pie," Tyrer said hastily.

Grumbling the servant went back to the kitchen and once inside the door bellowed with laughter amidst the pandemonium there. "Noble House Fay blew up like a barrel of fireworks when I shoved roast beef under his bulbous nose, pretending I thought it was curry. Ayeeyah," he said, holding his stomach with laughter, "I almost shat. Baiting foreign devils is more fun than fornication!"

Others laughed with him until the Head Cook reached over and belted him around the face.

"Listen, you dirty little fornicator--and the rest of you--don't bait Noble House foreign devils until Noble House Chen says it is all right.

Now take Noble House Fay his curry quickly and don't spit in it or I'll feed you your testicles in batter."

"Ayeeyah, spitting in foreign devil food is quite ordinary, Honorable Chief Cook," the youth muttered, his head almost off his shoulders, picked up a plate of chicken pie as well, then rushed to obey.

The plate of curry and bowl of rice banged on the table in front of McFay. "Curry, Mass'er, you wan' heya never mind." The youth hurried away, cursing inwardly, head aching, but still content for though he had not dared to disobey the Head Cook, he had kept his dirty thumb in the curry all the way from the kitchen.

"Rude bastard," Jamie said. "Ten dollars to a busted flush the bugger spat in it bringing it here."

"If you're so sure, why shout at him?"

Tyrer began cutting the Melton Mowbray-type pie with its thick crust.

"He needs it, they all need, and a good kick in the backside as well." With gusto McFay began tucking into the yellowish, gruel-like mutton and potato curry, globules of fat swimming on the surface. "Next, I hear you smuggled a samurai out of Yedo who speaks some English."

Tyrer almost choked on a piece of chicken.

"Rubbish!"

"Then why're you almost purple, for goodness' sake? You're talking to me, Noble House McFay! Come on, Phillip, how do you expect to keep that secret here? You were overheard." Perspiration dotted his brow from the heat of the curry, from time to time waving the flies away. "This's hot enough to fry your balls off-- good though. You want to try some?"

"No thanks."

Happily McFay continued to eat. Then, between mouthfuls his voice hardened though he still spoke confidentially. "Unless you talk to me openly about him, old chap, in confidence--my word on it--and share everything, all his info, I'll make an announcement here and now--to him." His spoon pointed at Nettlesmith, editor of the Yokohama Guardian, who was already watching them interestedly. A splatter of curry fell on the tablecloth. "If Wee Willie reads about your secret first in the paper, he'll bust a gut like you've never seen."

All Tyrer's hunger had vanished.

Queasily he said, "I, it's true we helped a dissident escape from Yedo. That's all I can say. Now he's under H.m.'s protection for the moment. Sorry, can't say any more, Official Secrets."

McFay eyed him shrewdly. "Her Britannic Majesty's protection eh?"

"Yes, sorry. Closed mouth catchee no flies, can't say any more. Secrets of State."

"Interesting." McFay finished the plate and shouted for a second helping. "But in return I won't tell a soul."

"Sorry, I'm sworn to secrecy." Tyrer was sweating too, a way of life in Asia except during the winter and spring months, and also because his secret was known. Even so, he was pleased with the way he was handling Jamie, undoubtedly the most important of the Yokohama traders.

"I'm sure you understand."

McFay nodded pleasantly, concentrating on his curry. "I understand very well, old chap. The very second I'm finished, Nettlesmith gets the exclusive."

"You wouldn't dare!" Tyrer was shocked.

"State s--"

"Balderdash on State secrets,"

McFay hissed. "First I don't believe you, second, even if it was we've the right to know, we're the State, by God, not a bunch of diplomat scallywags who can't fart their way out of an empty bag!"

"Now look here..."

"I'm looking. Share, Phillip, or read about it in the afternoon edition." McFay's beam was seraphic as he sopped up the last of the gravy with a final hunk of bread, and consumed it. He belched and pushed his chair away from the table and began to get up. "On your own head."

"Wait."

"Everything? You agree to tell me everything?"

Numbly Tyrer nodded. "If you swear to keep it secret."

"Good, but not here. My office's safer. Come on." As he passed Nettlesmith he said, "What's new, Gabriel?"

"Read the afternoon edition, Jamie. War soon in Europe, terrible in America, war brewing here."

"Just the usual. Well, see y--"

"Afternoon, Mr. Tyrer." Nettlesmith's canny eyes washed over him as he scratched thoughtfully then put his attention to McFay again.

"I've an advanced copy of the last chapter of Great Expectations."

Jamie shuddered to a stop, Phillip too.

"I don't believe it, by God!"

"Ten dollars and the promise of an exclusive."

"What exclusive?"

"When you have one. I'll trust you." Again the shrewd eyes looked at Tyrer who tried not to wince.

"This afternoon, Gabriel? Without fail?"

"Yes, for one hour, so you can't copy it--it's my exclusive. It cost me almost every favor I have in Fleet Street to aquir--"

"To steal. Two dollars?"

"Eight, but your hour's after Norbert's."