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The floor was of beaten earth. The odor of pigs was overwhelming. I was forced to acknowledge that my trip was not going at all as planned.
    French motioned to Cutliffe. “Let’s take a walk.”
    The little toad dutifully followed French out the door and around the building. Unfortunately, they remained close enough to the barn that I was left in no doubt of the purpose of their expedition. They returned just in time to meet the landlord at the door. He bore a tray from which wafted the most amazing odors. Say what you will about the Frogs, they’re rather good at this cooking business.
    French directed Cutliffe to a seat on a bale of straw and fetched a plate for him. I would have tortured the turncoat by eating in front of him, but French is the epitome of the English gentleman and wouldn’t dream of mistreating a prisoner. Thus I suffered the indignity of watching a Russian spy dig into a plate of eggs and ham while I sniffed the air hungrily and cursed French (silently, I might add, for he was the one dishing up the comestibles). Finally, I’d a plate in front of me and I tucked into it like a stevedore. I had three eggs, a slab of fried ham and a loaf of bread slathered with golden butter, and I polished it all off with a quart of milk fresh from the cow.
    I swabbed up the last of a yolk with a crust of bread and sighed contentedly.
    French eyed my empty plate. “Should I fetch another loaf? Or perhaps the landlord has a side of beef handy.”
    I patted my lips delicately. “That’s the first proper meal I’ve had in a long time.”
    “I’m glad I wasn’t standing between you and the tray.”
    “You’d have presented no obstacle.”
    “So I gather.” French fetched a cheroot from his pocket and struck a match on the sole of his boot. He smoked silently while I yawned. It was going to be deuced hard to stay awake for the rest of the journey. I could happily have stretched out on the floor of that barn and slept for the rest of the day, notwithstanding the odor of
eau de porcine
.
    “How much longer to Paris?” I asked.
    “We’ll arrive in the early morning hours,” said French. “Barring further encounters with highwaymen.”
    “I think they
were
thieves. My coach was in a shabby state. My luggage was inside the coach. They didn’t even pause as they galloped past. All that baggage on your shiny black brougham would have looked very inviting.” I glanced at Cutliffe and lowered my voice. “How did he react when those horsemen attacked you?”
    “He was surprised, and scared. I don’t think he was shamming.”
    “But you think they might have been Russians, or sent by the Russians to rescue him?”
    “I don’t know what to think. I’m sure the Russians would like to have Cutliffe without having to give up Harkwright in return. If the tables were turned, we’d be glad to get our man back and hold on to Cutliffe. So I suppose it isn’t out of the question that the Russians tried to fetch him.”
    “He seems to be a model prisoner,” I observed.
    “Wouldn’t you be? If he tries to escape, he knows we’ll turn right around and head for England, where he’ll spend the rest of his life in gaol. Provided he’s not hung, of course.”
    “He doesn’t look dangerous. Hardly like a spy at all. Is he that valuable to our friends in Saint Petersburg?”
    French smiled mirthlessly. “We’ve made him valuable. We’d had our eye on him for some time now, and we were just about to arrest him when we got wind that Harkwright had been picked up in Samarkand. Harkwright is invaluable to us. I told you he had a Russian mother, didn’t I? Well, he still has family in Russia who are highly placed in the government. They’ve not only smoothed the way for his travels around the country, but have also, though inadvertently, provided us with a wealth of information about the Russian court and its foreign policy.”
    “Why would they tell Harkwright anything? Surely they wouldn’t trust a man who’s