“Half a bottle of Krug,” he called to the barman and joined her, taking out an old silver case and lighting a cigarette.

“Still determined to take a few years off your life,” she said.

“You never give up, do you, sweetheart?” His voice was Humphrey Bogart to perfection. “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world she walks into mine.”

“Damn you!” She laughed as the waiter brought the Krug and opened it.

“You could have a Guinness instead. After all, you’re in Ireland.”

“No, I’ll force a little champagne down.”

“Good for you. Did you speak to Ferguson?”

“Oh, yes. I brought him right up to date.”

“And?”

“You can go to hell in your own way. If it works, the Lear will be waiting at Aldergrove and I get you straight out.”

“Good.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to us. Are you free for dinner?”

“I can’t think of anything else to do.”

At that moment he noticed a poster by the bar. “Good God, Grace Browning.” He went over to inspect it and turned to the barman. “Is it still playing?” Dillon asked, reverting to his English accent.

“Last night tomorrow, sir.”

“Could you get me a couple of tickets for tonight’s performance?”

“I think so, but you’ll have to be sharp. Curtain up in forty minutes. Mind you, the Lyric isn’t too far.”

“Good man. Ring the box office for me.”

“I will, Mr. Friar.”

Dillon went back to Hannah. “There you go, girl dear. Grace Browning’s one-woman show. Shakespeare’s Heroines. She’s brilliant.”

“I know. I’ve seen her at the National Theatre. Tell me, Dillon, don’t you ever get confused? One minute sounding like you’ve been to Eton, the next Belfast-Irish?”

“Ah, you’re forgetting my true vocation was the theatre. I went to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art before Grace Browning did. In fact, I played the National Theatre before she did. Lyngstrand in Lady from the Sea. Ibsen that was.”