She had two visitors during the first three days: the physician, Bizard, and a Protestant clergyman. Bizard had little to say, while the minister talked about salvation. She had also been given a Bible, a mildewed volume with hundreds of notations in the margins. She read it haphazardly, leafing through pages until she found some psalm or passage familiar from her childhood. She could rarely take it for more than an hour, except late at night when she found herself drawn to Genesis and certain later chapters from Revelations.

Nights were the worst. There was an Alsatian girl, half mad, who sobbed and sang hymns. There were two or three Germans, who also seemed to be out of their minds. There was someone with a mouth organ, and a woman with an incessant cough. Occasionally there were screams.

She returned to Bouchardon on the morning of the fourth day. A cold front the night before had sent the temperature well below freezing, and her fingers were still a little numb. She had also found that her gums had been bleeding, from an absence of fresh fruit, she thought. Bouchardon only noted that she had seemed uneasy on entering the office and seeing a young stenographer, Manuel Baudouin.

Bouchardon had compiled a list of questions from the previous day's testimony, and Zelle soon found herself returning to the middle years and that dismal season in Berlin. The tone, however, was slightly different from that of the previous session. She no longer made an attempt to embellish the insignificant or minimize the rest. Her voice was flat. She kept drawing the handkerchief through her thumb and forefinger.

"At what point did you become aware of Rudolph Spangler's real profession?" Bouchardon asked.

She shook her head. There were also traces of dried blood on the handkerchief that seemed to have no source. "One doesn't become aware of something like that all at once."

"All right, then approximately when did you become aware of his real profession?"

"I suppose it was in Madrid."

"Before you agreed to accompany him to Germany?"

"Yes."

"So then why did you continue the relationship?"

She shook her head again. "Please?"

"If you knew that the man was a German spy, why did you continue to see him. Indeed, why did you agree to accompany him to Berlin?"

She heard herself say, "I must have thought I was in love. I tend to do that . . ."

"You must have thought you were in love? Very well, then at what point were you not in love with him?"

"I don't know."

"Was it after he had arrested your Englishman, the painter Nicholas Gray?"

She shrugged, still looking down at that handkerchief in her hands . . . Nicky had said that white was really the most deceptive color—

"Was it after he had arrested your English—"

"Yes."