The boy came forward after Gray had been stripped to the waist. He moved slowly. The girl had backed away to the window, lifting the blind so that a shaft of light fell across Gray's back. The boy, however, ordered that the blind be lowered again. Then, an instant sooner than expected—like a razor blade across Gray's spine.

When it was over he couldn't walk; they had to drag him, and the impact of the stones on his shin left him barely conscious. He recognized the smell as they descended to the cellars. He felt the damp cold beyond the last door. He heard the sound of a snapping lock.

He again sensed Zelle's presence in the darkness . . . She must have entered through the bars, or even from below through a drain . . . her hand was again cool on his forehead, her hair like a shadow. She told him he mustn't try to speak or move, to lie still in her arms. After a while she told him things he'd waited years to hear her say ... He could hardly believe it . . .

He began to answer their questions on the tenth day. He did not consciously surrender, there just came a point when he found himself talking. Spangler, the gentleman, never suggested that one man's submission was another's victory. Indeed, everyone behaved quite decently, so that finally only Zelle was disappointed . . . but then she had always disliked weakness . . .

With submission came new liberties and new comforts. They moved him from the windowless cell to a small barrack room with a bunk bed, a chair, and a desk. There was a view of the marsh and a crenelated wall. Birds, mostly crows, occasionally flew in and out of the foliage. He was sent to a doctor, a mild man who said he was outraged that the patient had been so badly mistreated. There were also decent meals and bathing facilities.

Initially the interrogations were still held in that whitewashed void of a room, with the girl recording in her stenographer's pad. Then, exuding good fellowship, Spangler took him out to the gardens, to oaks to connecting flagstones through the shrubbery, and farther afield to an overgrown tennis court and the remains of a summer cottage. Spangler did not begin asking questions until they had lost sight of the main estate.

The first memorable session began with a casual question about Gray's first experience with the service. They had been walking along a narrow path between high hedgerows. It was a warm day with the promise of moist, static heat. Spangler was a step ahead of Gray, poking at the vegetation with a stick— a heavy, varnished thing with a knotted handle. "Tell me about your initial experience," he said. "How did you feel when you were first approached by someone from the Service?"

"Annoyed."

"Because you resented the intrusion?"

"Because I disliked Charles Dunbar."