A servant coughed politely at his elbow. `Beg pardon, sir.

The admiral is waitin' on you in his room.' He made a small gesture towards the stairway.

'Thank you.' He waited until the man had hurried away to answer some noisy demand from the coffee room and then took a final glance at the mirror. It was neither vanity nor personal interest. It was more of a cold scrutiny which he might offer to a subordinate.

Bolitho was twenty-six years old, but his impassive features and the deep lines on either side of his mouth made him appear older, and for a brief instant he found himself wondering how the change had come about. Almost irritably he pushed the black hair away from his forehead, pausing only to allow one rebellious lock to stay in place above his right eye.

Neither was that action one of vanity. More perhaps one of embarrassment.

Barely an inch above his eye, and running deep into his hair-line, was a savage diagonal scar. He allowed his fingers to touch it momentarily, as a man will let his mind explore an old memory, and then with a final shrug he walked briskly up the stairs.

Vice-Admiral Sir Henry Langford was standing, feet well apart, directly in front of the highest log fire Bolitho had ever seen. His glittering uniform shone in the dancing flames, and his thick shadow seemed to reach out across the spacious room to greet Bolitho's quiet entrance.

For several seconds the two men stood looking at each other. The admiral, in his sixties, and running to bulkiness, his heavy face dominated by a large beaked nose above which his keen blue eyes shone like two polished stones, and the slim, tanned captain.

Then the admiral stirred into life and stepped away from the fire, his hand outstretched. Bolitho felt the heat from the fire released across the room, as if a furnace door had been flung open.