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have been off, but John was definitely not feeling quite the thing on Friday. He stayed in his dressing gown most of the day, and while he refused the man’s offer to fetch a doctor, he did submit meekly to Withering’s ministrations and drank the familiar concoction of raw eggs and pepper without complaint. He was about to accede to Withering’s offer to procure an early supper to eat in his rooms, when a message was sent up by the doorman from downstairs.
    The seal was Barlow’s. “That will be all, Withering,” he said sharply as he tore open the envelope. He glanced over the single line. “Supper at Brooks’s upper rooms. Nine. Barlow.”
    “Withering,” John called. “I’m eating at Brooks. Set out some neck cloths.” Had Barlow discovered the identity of the spider at the center of the new French web of spies already?
    “Yes, my lord,” Withering said, sighing.
    In fact, it felt good to get out into the brisk March air as John strode down Duke Street. It was not far to Brooks, where Barlow had engaged a small private dining room.They talked of inconsequential matters through the Dover sole and the saddle of venison with its accompanying array of winter vegetables. Barlow was an old man, with beetling brows that inched across his forehead like caterpillars. He had been sick when John left for France last, so sick John hesitated to go. But tonight he seemed in the pink of health. Even his normally gouty foot did not bother him. John wondered whether he should tell Barlow about the footpads who might not have been footpads. He wasn’t certain they were anything but what they seemed. As the trifle was served, John mentioned a hot tip for the spring meeting at Newmarket. “Gone to Grass,” he said, as the waiter left a decanter of brandy, a tray of cheeses, and a box of cheroots. “Turvey has got a new training method. You should see his horses run.”
    The door closed softly behind the waiter. Both men lighted their cheroots. The smoke blended with Barlow’s lavender water scent. He was wearing a touch too much. John drew on his cigar and sat back, watching Barlow exhale and slosh the amber liquid in his cut-crystal glass. “You did not invite me to dinner for the pleasure of watching me smoke.”
    Barlow glanced up, his old eyes sharp. “We may have acquired a way to the information we need,” he said slowly. “But there is a slight problem.”
    Did he know already who the new spider was at the center of the French intelligence web? The man was amazing. John chuckled. “Nothing you can’t handle.”
    “Don’t be so sure, young man,” Barlow chuffed, “until you know the situation.”
    John took no offense. The situation must be difficult indeed to make Barlow so touchy.
    “A French operative familiar with the highest circles of French intelligence was on a frigate that escaped the blockade at Brest,” Barlow said. “He was among several passengers let off in Spain who made their way to Gibraltar.”
    “Sounds promising. I’m sure our intrepid compatriots in the navy picked them up.”
    Barlow’s shaggy brows snapped down. “His name is Dupré.”
    “Your interrogators are very good at getting Frenchmen to ‘parler.’ ” John took a sip of brandy and watched Barlow. The old man was really quite agitated.
    “When you question a man rigorously you get false information. It won’t do.”
    John didn’t want to think about Barlow’s definition of “rigorous” questioning. That was part of the business. The poor French sod would be singing like a canary, naming everyone and anyone. John drew on his cheroot and watched the smoke curl up toward the ceiling. “You want me to gain his confidence and ferret out his secrets.”
    Barlow nodded. “You’ll pose as a fellow prisoner. Your French is perfect.”
    John’s mind clicked ahead. “It can’t be anywhere prisoners are kept in separate cells. It would take too long to get close to him. How about a prison hulk in Portsmouth