'Do you know of a man called Drumont?' I said quietly.

He stared at me.

'He is a journalist; a detestable man. Twisted, violent, hateful. I must say I cannot even be in the same room as him without feeling sick. But he has extraordinary ability. He hates all Republicans, all politicians. The delight he will get from grinding you into the dust will be very great. Destroying people is more than duty for him. It is a pleasure. Can you imagine the headlines? How he will enjoy himself? How your enemies will delight in hounding you from office? France may triumph, Minister. But you will not taste any of the fruits of victory. M. Drumont will see to that.'

'There is nothing that can be discovered,' he said airily. 'Do you think I gave her receipts?'

'She keeps a diary,' I said wearily. 'It is very detailed, in every respect. And she was a foreign spy. I can prove that also. I have details of payments made to her by the German military via the Bank of Hamburg. She passed on pillow talk for whatever price she could get. You will soon be able to read about it yourself. In his paper. In a couple of days, I imagine. '

'What do you want?'

'Three million sterling. In gold bullion. To be deposited with the Bank of England immediately. You may, if you wish, make an announcement via the Bank about international responsibilities, how France has decided to act to guarantee the stability of the money markets. Say whatever you wish to gain the maximum advantage from the situation. But the money will be deposited or the diaries will be published.'

'You are asking the impossible.'

'I think not. A word to the Governor of the Bank of France next door is all that is needed.'

'You cannot possibly think I will reverse myself like that? Even to save my own skin? My reputation . . .'

'. . . Will be enhanced. You will have pulled off a masterstroke. Enhancing France's international standing with one small gesture and at no cost at all.'

'It can't be done.'

'It can be. So, what is your decision, Minister? Ridicule and possible prosecution for corruption, or a quiet but powerful reputation as the most skilful Treasury Minister the Republic has ever had?'

'I need time to reflect.'

'You don't have time. You will go next door to your colleagues and agree to the deal they have so carefully worked out. You will go now.'

He was calculating fast, not even able to look at Elizabeth, then threw down his hat and gloves and strode out of the room. I thought I had won, but wasn't sure. That was not what was on my mind in any case. I did not really care. I wanted to beat Stone, that was all, show him I was as clever as he, and take away from him something he wanted at the same time. And I didn't care how I did it.

Elizabeth sat, looking suddenly so tired, so reduced, trembling at what I had done, but unable to show any other emotion. She was in shock at the speed and ease with which I had torn her world to shreds, and trampled it into the dust. Because I had not hesitated, not tried to spare her in any way. She was merely a weapon in negotiations which I had used without hesitation. Her worst enemy had never betrayed her on such a scale. She couldn't even look at me, could not raise her eyes to look at Stone, standing still by the fireplace.

Eventually she lifted her head, but to Stone, not me. 'I imagine you will want to leave now, Mr Stone,' she said so quietly I could only just hear her. 'You realise, I am sure, that everything Mr Cort said is true.'

Stone put his face in his hands and breathed deeply. I was no longer in the room for them. I didn't exist. I stood up. Neither of them noticed. When I got to the door I turned.

'One more thing.'

'Go away, Cort,' he said wearily. 'Leave this house.'

'I will. But I need to say this. Elizabeth, I am sorry. I did what I had to. But at least I have taken care of Drennan for you. He is dead. I will recover the diaries and deliver them to you, unread.'

And here Stone whirled round. 'What?'

'It is not something that concerns you, Mr Stone.'

'I think it is. You say Drennan is dead?'

I frowned in puzzlement. 'You know him?'

'What happened?'

'He was shot this afternoon.'

Stone turned pale. 'Oh, my God. What have you done? You killed him?'

'I didn't kill him. The Russians did. It was part of the deal you wanted. Part of the price. It made them trust me enough to listen to me. Why?'

'You told me your servant had robbed you,' he said to her, ignoring me. 'You didn't say what had been taken. I assumed it was some jewellery. I asked Drennan if he could help, I've known him for years. It was to be a surprise, to show you . . .'

He looked at me in total disbelief. 'You killed him?' he repeated.

'Just trying to make the world safe for business,' I said. 'It's what everybody wanted.'

I left, leaving the final part unsaid, the bit about why Stone seemed almost relieved when I had tackled Rouvier. Almost as though he was glad he did not have to. I couldn't put the pieces together. I am still not sure. Besides, it was nearly three in the morning. I was tired. Perhaps I was imagining things.

It really was over. Rouvier concluded that a small guaranteed triumph was a better bet than a bigger prize that might be torn from his grasp. Three hours later the cables started going out to newspapers and agencies that the Bank of France and the Bank of Russia, in a spirit of international solidarity and to ensure the smooth operation of markets, had agreed to deposit extra gold at the Bank of England. It turned the tide; Barings collapsed and the family was all but ruined, but it resurfaced in a new guise soon enough, although it was only ever a shadow of its former self. The markets recovered from their nasty fright and settled down to normal business after a month or so. The City's reputation was damaged, the prestige of France and Russia climbed, but London's position remained unchallenged and the beginnings of a mutual understanding began to emerge. Russia and France signed a secret alliance, and French money began pouring in to build up the Russian economy and army. London banks, often enough, didn't even compete.

John Stone got to work. The construction of the port of Nicolaieff on the Black Sea produced only token and ineffectual protest from Britain, surprising considering that such a thing might ordinarily have been enough to start a war. It proved that Russia was not as backward as everyone had thought, considering that it was able to mobilise the resources and technology to construct such a vast enterprise without outside help.

And in the spring of 1891, John Stone married the Countess Elizabeth Hadik-Barkoczy von Futak uns Szala at St Oswald's church in Malpas, Shropshire. I was not invited to the wedding. I scarcely came across them for years although, now I have finally returned to England because of Mr Wilkinson's death, we inevitably meet occasionally. We are formal and polite.

We never talk about his wife.