It was, Smiley conceded to himself, a diversion from the matter at hand. There was nothing there to be learned. However, the address he had traced fell on an entirely plausible route to his destination, and, possibly, if he had been aware, his own decency was waylaying him. One more of the sad exiles from the Circus, kept out of the Garden by Percy Alleline's flaming sword, through Eden taking their solitary way. He wondered if he might do more harm than good, but tried to dismiss the thought.

Morse, Smiley recalled as he crossed the street, had been a favorite of Connie's. "He's the cleverest boy," she had trilled. "I ought to have stolen him from the cradle and raised him as my own." They had snatched him, if not from infancy, straight out of Oxford, in the midst of some sort of breakdown over a girl. On reflection, Smiley regretted the circumstances; he had always disliked the feeling of taking a man at a vulnerable point. But, in truth, Morse had come to them himself a few weeks after Fanshawe approached him, had sat there in the uncomfortable chair and awkwardly refused the very small amount of whiskey offered, had known why they wanted him and said yes of his own free will. Morse had been, almost too obviously, their sort of person, and Control had smiled as he read the file—a sight even more unsettling than it was rare.

The number was that of a ground floor flat. The bell was answered after an interval long enough to cause Smiley some unease. There was Morse: pale, his hair begun to grow long, bruise-colored shadows visible under the eyes. He stared like a man seeing a revenant. "May I come in?"

Morse said nothing, but stepped aside to let him pass, then hastily locked the door. "Is this business?"

"I was in Oxford and thought I would stop." A soprano was pouring from an unseen record player. "Parsifal? Very nice."

Morse nodded. "Tea—sir?"

"Yes, thank you." As Smiley followed him into a dingy kitchenette, he noticed the slight telltale limp. That had been one of Control's more minor disasters in the months leading up to Czecho; something gone wrong in Berlin, Morse blown and consequently shot. But, unlike Prideaux, he had gotten out, and news of "Richard Snow"—"Endeavour" being out of the question for a work name—had never reached the press.

The table at which Smiley sat was littered with books and papers. "I apologize if I present an interruption."

Morse set a cup and saucer in front of him. "I work for a publisher," he said. "They think I was with the diplomatic service. I'm translating a monograph on the economy of the Hapsburg Empire." For a moment, they sat in silence, as the voices from the record swelled onward and the tap periodically dripped. "What do you want to know?"

"I don't really need anything from you, I've just been making a few inquiries," Smiley said. "On Lacon's behalf. About the Prideaux affair." He paused. "Where were you that night? Control had cleared the whole place out, as I recall."

"I was still on leave," Morse said, looking surprised. "After Berlin. 'We'll have you back once you're rested,' they told me. Then Czecho happened and they never did. 'You're finished, here's a little extra for your trouble.' Mr. Esterhase kept asking if there was anything they could do. I said no."

"Did they give you a reason?"

"The same one they gave you."

It seemed best to avoid a direct reply. "How have you been, since then?"

"In disgrace with fortune and men's eyes." Morse picked up one of the books and began, aimlessly, to turn the pages. "I suppose I'm not allowed to ask questions," he said after a moment, looking up with a half-smile.

Smiley returned the smile. "No."

"If you find you could use someone—"

"I'm afraid not." If it was hard enough, Smiley thought, for the old guard like him and Connie, it was far worse for a man like Morse, with all the years still in front of him. "But I do appreciate the offer."

Morse shrugged as if trying to make light of it. "Good luck, sir."

"Thank you." Smiley rose. "I'll see myself out."

Morse heard the door shut with a click. He remembered sitting in the little room at Sarratt, giving confession. He hadn't even felt the shot at first. Two months later, in the midst of being told he was sacked, he had started violently at the noise of a folding chair being knocked over. Esterhase had looked at him with something resembling pity.

He thought of doing a bit of private reconnaissance, but the idea was mad; he'd never be able to escape Smiley's notice. Merely the sight of him at the door had left Morse more shaken than he wanted to admit. He had done what they had implied was his duty and tried to forget the Circus as much as possible, to become only the self-effacing E. Morse on the title page of Economic Disparities among the Hapsburg Territories. If not for the empty cup left on the other side of the table, this might as well have been a dream.

The rumble of a lorry passing outside recalled him to his surroundings. The room was cold. It was beginning to grow dark, and the streetlight gazed like a voyeur through the front window. The record had run out.