“Well, then perhaps you’ll permit me to impress you with my small skills as a chef. Would you care to lunch?” The eyes were sharp now, though the face was relaxed and friendly.

“It’s rather early,” I said, hesitating a moment.

He continued. “Egg of pigeon poached in red wine, escargots, rognons aux fines herbes, all accompanied by the finest wine on the Côte du Rhone, served at the chef’s table.”

“It is a great temptation,” I said. “You, of course, though you haven’t said it, would greatly appreciate an introduction to a certain local brewer I mentioned.”

He smiled. “Your deduction, though obvious, is flawless.”

“And your discretion?”

“Unimpeachable.”

I walked back to him.

“At what time shall we eat?” I asked. Later I would recognize that slight turn of the lips as a beaming smile.

“We can begin immediately, if you’d like to come down to the kitchen.”

“Gladly.”

We crossed through the tables to a door that didn’t leave much room to spare for us and opened it. A short stairway led to the kitchen. He stopped at the bottom.

“And the introduction?”

“Pardon?”

“To the brewer?”

“Ah yes. You’ve already met him.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Indeed?”

I nodded. “A vôtre service.”

And so it was arranged that Auguste Lupa come to my house the next morning at ten for beer and a light lunch.

2

Espionage, like any other profession, has its ups and downs. Lately, though, it had taken a monotonous turn to the latter.

I’d been one of the few operatives who’d dared before August to suggest that the German thrust would be through Belgium. This was viewed as so outrageous that those of us who believed it were “transferred.” Even after the event came to pass, we were still regarded as second-class and relegated to desks or to the country. I should have been upset with the demotion, but in fact I’d been happy. I’d begun to feel constrained under the inflexibility of Joffre’s