'A pity. Because I want you to go to Lausanne. In Switzerland.'

Jules gaped. I might as well have said I wanted him to go to the moon.

'It's time you saw the world a little,' I said. 'You can't spend your entire life in Paris. It will take you a day to get there, the same to get back and however long it takes to complete the job I want done. I will give you money for the train ticket, and board and lodging when you are there.'

Jules was looking decidedly uncomfortable. He was a street urchin, even if he was one with dreams. The prospect of leaving his stamping ground, the streets and passages he knew so well, struck terror into his heart. But, brave lad that he was, he recovered swiftly. This, I could see him saying to himself, was necessary. This he had to do. I sympathised with his terror and pretended not to notice.

'When in Lausanne, I want you to find out about a man called Stauffer. I know nothing about him, except that he is dead. Start at the local paper, ask for obituaries, that sort of thing. Find out who he was. About his wife, children and relations, especially children. Any unusual stories, scandals or incidents. Anything at all, really. '

Jules nodded hesitantly. 'Can I ask why?'

'No. It doesn't matter why. Think of it simply as good practice for your life as a journalist in years to come.'

'What life?'

'Dear boy, you are made for it. When you leave me, as one day you no doubt will, you will have to get a proper job. You will be an excellent journalist, and I will recommend you to an editor when you are ready. You will have to start at the bottom; after that it will be up to you. What's the matter? Is there something else you want to do?'

Jules had sat down on the bed, his face white with shock. 'I don't know what to say . . .' he muttered eventually.

'Well, if you don't want to do it . . .'

'Of course I do,' he said, looking up urgently. 'Of course I do.'

'Excellent,' I replied. 'That's settled then. I suggest you spend your time on the train beginning to prepare yourself. Buy every single newspaper, and read them all, carefully.'

The look of pleasure on his face as he bustled about, helping himself to money from the drawer to fund his journey, was worth the generosity. In fact, the idea had only just occurred to me, and I had suggested it somewhat too hastily. But it was a good one. Jules was a natural, hence his current success. And it invigorated him and made him even more diligent in my service. I was his ticket to a new life, and he was absolutely determined that it should not slip from his grasp. He went off half an hour later to find his best clothes and set off for Lausanne.

And then I put the whole matter out of my mind, to concentrate on work. 'Recent developments in the French banking sector.' One of those wordy, ponderous articles The Times likes so much. I have never understood who it thinks might read them. I was following my hunch about the comments Netscher had made, and had briefly all but abandoned my other business.

Branching out into banking was difficult, as I had nothing to sell. I wrote to Wilkinson, but did not expect a reply. He never did if he could avoid it. It was somewhat dispiriting; I had a high opinion of my progress, but I had not the slightest idea whether anyone had noticed. So I contacted John Stone, the only other person in whom I could confide. I don't know why I did this; it was not my habit to go running to figures of authority when in difficulty, but I felt the need to talk the question over with someone, get an outside opinion, so to speak.

He was staying at the Hôtel du Louvre; he had a suite there more or less permanently reserved for him when he came to Paris for business. So I went to lunch with him, although not in the public dining area. I did not want it advertised that I associated with such people, for their sake as well as my own.

It was a pleasant meeting, much to my surprise, as I had not greatly taken to him on our first encounter. He told me how impressed he was by my progress, how Mr Wilkinson was delighted, and telling everyone in Whitehall about his young prodigy, 'For whom, of course, he modestly takes full credit,' Stone added drily.

'It's very kind of you,' I said, 'I didn't know anyone paid the slightest bit of attention to what I was doing.'

'Goodness, yes. You are considered quite an oracle already. Of course, there is still considerable opposition to the way you go about things, but no one argues with success overmuch. So, tell me, what can I do for you?'

'I'm not sure. I don't know whether it's anything at all. It may be just a will o' the wisp. It was a passing comment I picked up at a dinner party, at the Countess von Futak's salon . . .'

'You go to her salon?'

'Ah . . . yes. Well, not often. Sometimes. Why?'

'Oh, no matter. Go on. Your comment?'

So I told him about old Abraham Netscher, and his musings on the vulnerability of the City of London. It sounded very lame.

'I see,' Stone said when I had finished. 'And you think that . . .'

'Not really, not seriously. At least, it occurred to me that it would be a remarkable coup to pull off, if anyone dared try. But I have no more than that to go on.'

'I know many people in banking,' Stone said thoughtfully, 'including Netscher, who is a fine man. But I do not suppose anyone would tell me of such a scheme, even if it existed. I will listen with more care than usual. And, if you desire, I will happily provide you with some introductions.'

'That is kind of you.'

He waved it aside. 'Now, tell me of this Countess,' he said.

'Why?'

'She is the talk of Paris; I would like to know why.'

I described her as best I could, the official version, that is, and described her coup – I attributed it to her rather than to Wilkinson – in Biarritz with the Prince of Wales. I noticed I was jealous of her reputation and wanted to keep my knowledge of her entirely to myself.

'You know no more than that?' Stone said, curious for the first time in our acquaintance.

'Do you?'

'She is a Hungarian Countess, who decided to travel when her husband died. I think her family disapproved of her marriage, and she was disinclined to forgive them when he died. I met her some months ago and, like you, found her quite charming.'

He nodded thoughtfully. 'I am giving a small dinner for friends, in four days' time,' he said abruptly. 'Would you care to join me? There will be a couple of people whom you might wish to know.'

'That is kind.'

'And would you do me the great service of escorting the Countess to the restaurant for me? I am afraid I have meetings all day and cannot be sure when they will end. Although she likes to be late, she very much disapproves of other people keeping her waiting.'

'With pleasure,' I said without the slightest hesitation to betray my surprise. It was not that he had invited her, nor that she had, apparently, accepted. It was the uncomfortable, almost schoolboyish bashfulness on his face which astonished me.