She tossed back her head, and swept a strand of loose hair from her eyes with one finger. I had watched her intensely; had memorised her every gesture, and that was something she did not do. It was as though she had taken on a different persona entirely. Almost as though she was a different person. I felt utterly confused. Surely it could not be so.

She was dressed in the manner of everyone else in the room; thin, old clothes, utterly unbecoming, with thick black boots. Buttoned up to the neck with a row of buttons, one of which was undone, one missing. Her face was severe and more serious, it looked as though it had been angry often. Her skin was pallid, old looking. Weary. The smile had no warmth in it at all.

No, I decided.

'And you are?'

'Call me Jenny,' she said flatly.

'Is it your real name?'

'What does that matter? With women names are ownership. Who your father was, who your husband is. We must choose our own names, you agree?'

'Absolutely. Just what I was thinking myself.'

'I do not approve of frivolity.'

'Sorry. Habit.'

'Divest yourself of this habit.' She had pronounced. She had finished. 'You will find the meeting instructive if you pay proper attention.'

She almost clicked her heels together, I swear, and then, very briefly, for a fraction of a fraction of a second as she turned away, I caught her eye. Grey. And I got that familiar shock, running through my system; the curdling feeling in my stomach, the outpouring of breath, the sudden speeding up of my heart.

Stefan or no Stefan, and despite the undoubted appeal of a many-houred talk from a Russian anarchist, I decided to leave and quickly. At least I managed not to run, but I made my way to the door, through the groups of people coming in the opposite direction, as quickly as I could. Josef stopped me just as I was about to regain my freedom. 'You are surely not leaving?'

'I must, I'm afraid, I . . .' I tried, but failed to think of some good reason. 'I've just remembered some work I have to do. Dreadfully sorry. Really looking forward to it.'

'Another time, then,' he said with no great interest. 'As you see the doors are always open. Even to journalists.'

'Thank you. That is kind, and I have found even the little I've seen interesting. Very interesting. Tell me, who is that woman over there?'

I nodded as discreetly as I could.

'Why do you want to know?'

'Oh, we talked, you see. And there are so few women here, I wondered.'

'If you want to find out, you should ask her yourself. Besides, I don't know a great deal about her. She's been coming occasionally for the last six months or so. It was the first thing she did when she got off the boat.'

'The boat?'

'Yes. She is German; had to leave because . . . well, that doesn't matter. But she's tough and committed. If you want to know more, ask her. But don't expect an answer.'

I didn't want to push the matter too far. So I left, grateful only that Hozwicki hadn't shown up. The last thing I needed was to have to come up with another excuse.

Kropotkin arrived only about ten minutes after I left; I saw him from my vantage point across the road. It was part of the training; part of the way I had trained myself, at any rate. The ability to wait. It is a skill possessed by very few people. Most get bored after only a few minutes, they become agitated and dream up dozens of good reasons why they are wasting their time, simply to justify giving up. I had learned, not exactly to like it, but more to let my mind drift, so that time seemed to pass more quickly. It had a peaceful aspect to it. It is a small talent, I know, but it is rare and one I am quite proud of. So I found a dark corner, in an alleyway running along the side of a grocer's shop on the other side of the road, which gave a clear view but which wasn't lit up by the gaslight. I pulled my coat more firmly around my neck. And I waited. And waited. I saw Stefan hurry in, along with several others; saw a carriage draw up and a tall man with a thick bushy beard get out. That, I thought, would be Kropotkin. Let us assume ten minutes to get started; then three hours of meeting, at least. I pulled my pocket watch out of my waistcoat and peered at it. It was eight o'clock. It was going to be a long evening.

It was. Almost interminable. Even my skilled placidity in these situations was only just sufficient to get me through. My mind fixed on this Jenny. It hammered away time and again at the whole business, and I could not make head nor tail of it. I was only sure of one thing. I had been lied to, once again.

So I waited, cold, very hungry and distraught. Nine o'clock; ten o'clock; half past ten. A few people drifted out from time to time; perhaps they did not find the Prince's words satisfying. Perhaps they had heard them before. Some hung around outside talking, others walked swiftly off. None interested me.

Eventually Jenny came out. Bundled up in a coat, with a hat on her head, but there was no mistaking her. She was with a man, the one who had told me to set out the chairs. He also had a hat, pulled down over his face. His right hand was in the pocket of his overcoat.

And he touched her. Stroked her back with his left hand in an unmistakable gesture of intimacy. And she responded, leaning her body against his. There was no mistake. I did not imagine it.

So I followed. A more hot-blooded person than I might have accosted them. 'Hello, Your Ladyship, fancy seeing you here!' But I decided that knowledge was a better revenge. I would discover everything, first of all.

So I tagged behind at a good distance, just keeping them in view, ducking into the shadows whenever the man paused to tie his shoelaces, or strike a match against a wall, or when they stopped on the pavement to talk. This they did often enough to make me realise they were afraid of being followed. Nobody stops that often. But I had learned from a master. George Short had cut his teeth as a runner before becoming a reporter. He knew all the tricks of how to follow without being seen and, I suspected, knew how to pick pockets and listen in to conversations in bars and restaurants as well. When I was getting going he taught me some of his skills. 'You never know when it might come in handy,' he'd said. 'These university graduates think it's all about a well-turned phrase. They wouldn't be able to get a story if it bit them on the leg.'

His skills had never been that useful before, but now I saw their point. It is a question of getting into the rhythm of the person you are following, watching them intently until you can predict what they are going to do; moving in harmony with them, so that you are already tucked away in the shadows before they have even begun to turn. Of knowing how far back to be. Of knowing how to walk light-footedly but naturally, so that you are unsuspected even if you are seen.

I followed them for a mile or so; down Jubilee Street, along Commercial Road, up Turner Street, then into Newark Street, a row of houses, rundown and poor. They stopped outside one of them which was all in darkness, and talked. I heard nothing, but I did not need to; he wanted her to come in; that was clear. She refused, initially, and my spirits rose a little. But then she took his hand, allowed him to lead her to the door and they vanished inside.

If I had been in a state of shocked disbelief before, it was nothing in comparison to how I felt now. I could describe my emotions for a very long time, but in fact they were very simple. I was jealous to the point of insanity. She was mine, I told myself. It was another one of her lies to add to the growing list. And such a man? Such people? Clearly, they weren't notes of her husband's payments to the Brotherhood that I had found in that folder; they were hers. He had discovered and was trying to find out what she was doing. This man was probably one of that group and she was paying him. My stomach turned over with disgust. I would expose her to the world. I would destroy her reputation so completely she would have to leave the country for ever. How to do it? Hozwicki, obviously; I'd promised him a story; it would be better than he dreamed of. Then Seyd's. I'd pull her husband's companies down until their worth would fit in my back pocket in small change.