"But if your relationship with Rudolph Spangler had ended with the arrest of Nicholas Gray, then how were you later able to persuade Herr Spangler to release Mr. Gray? Please, tell me how this was achieved."

She stared at them for a moment . . . Bouchardon, so apparently relaxed behind deepset eyes, the young stenographer with his fountain pen poised above the ledger. "I'm afraid . . . I'm afraid that I don't ... I don't understand."

"But the question is simple enough, madame. If you had severed your relationship with Spangler on the arrest of Gray, then how were you able to later revive that relationship and obtain the prisoner's freedom?"

"I don't know, I'm not sure ..."

Money seemed to be the next topic of interest. Bouchardon began by explaining, "We know that you accepted twenty thousand francs from the German spymaster Karl Cramer. Now perhaps you can tell us a little about that arrangement."

"I accepted the money because the Germans had taken my furs."

"Your furs?"

"When I left Berlin in the summer of 1914 my furs had been confiscated at the German border. I felt it was only fair that I take Herr Cramer's money as a reimbursement."

"But surely Herr Cramer had not given you the money as a reimbursement."

"No."

"He gave you the money as an advance payment for services rendered in Paris . . . services rendered as an intelligence agent for the German war machine. Isn't that correct?"

She nodded, watching the stenographer's fountain pen jumping to the paper again. "Yes, the money was to have been an advance."

"But you only took it for your furs, is that correct?"

"Yes, my furs/'

"Then why did you also accept three bottles of professional ink?" For a moment she couldn't seem to form the words. "Professional ink?"

"Secret ink. Invisible ink. You know what I'm talking about, madame."

"But I threw it overboard." As though her former private act of defiance was universally known.

Bouchardon had removed a pale-gray envelope from his desk. She supposed that it must have been waiting for her from the start ... a pale-gray envelope and three or four typewritten pages.

"We have done a detailed chemical analysis of certain personal possessions found in your room. Among these items was a small vial containing oxycyanide of mercury. Further experiments revealed that this substance can be quite successfully used for the transcription of—"

She shut her eyes. "It's a disinfectant, monsieur."

"A what?"

"A disinfectant."

"Ah, a disinfectant. And you purchased this disinfectant for what purpose? You were a little careless perhaps in the bathroom? There had been a small accident with a razor perhaps?"

Eyes still shut tight: "To prevent pregnancy."

"To prevent pregnancy? Is that what you said, madame?" Then turning to the stenographer, "Is that what she said? To prevent pregnancy? This vial of oxycyanide of mercury is a substance to prevent—"

"To be applied after . . . after, to prevent pregnancy."

"Ah, I see. Well, that certainly explains everything, doesn't it?"