"Margaretha, I swear I never knew this would happen. They just wanted me to get to know you."

"And to make love to me? To ask me to marry you?"

"Margaretha, I swear . . ."

She glanced back at the far wall, and the first patch of sunlight in days. There was a scent of rain on the breeze, a deeper scent of the river.

"Who hired you, Tommy?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Who?"

"Charles Dunbar."

"And what did he tell you to do?"

"He wanted me to find out who you were spying for. Look, I'm sorry, I really didn't know this would happen."

She glanced at his hands tightening on the bar, then at the parcel under his arm. "What's that?"

"A gift. I mean a real gift. They didn't tell me to bring it." Then, thrusting the parcel through the bars: "I know it's not much, but you said you liked this sort of thing."

She took it without looking. "Thank you."

"And if there's anything else I can do. Anything at all ..."

She glanced back over her shoulder again, then took a step closer. "There's someone I want you to find for me."

"Anything."

"I told you about him before. Nicholas Gray. I think he's in London."

"London?"

"Find him. Find him and write to him for me. Tell him what's happened."

"But I'm still—" "Please. Just do it."

The parcel that Merrick had given her contained a thin volume of Indian verse from the Bhagavad-Gita, the Song of God. An English translation by Sir Edwin Arnold, the work was actually quite far from the original Sanskrit. There were, however, several lovely illustrations and a number of passages relating to a subject that had always intrigued her—reincarnation. At first she concealed the book beneath her cot; then, fearing a search of her cell, she finally opened an end of the pallet and stuffed it deep inside the infested straw.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Eight

IT was the sort of place that one would never have frequented before the war: checked tablecloths, candlesticks stuck in wine bottles, crossed oars above the bar. The waiter was a dull fellow, possibly another shell-shock case. The only other patrons were prostitutes and soldiers. Through torn curtains lay a view of a boulevard and a platoon of clerks and typists waiting for a tram.

Gray arrived at five. A half-hour later Southerland joined him— looking very pale in a black overcoat and homburg, left eye slightly inflamed. Merrick's letter lay between them on the table. They had ordered beer but it was flat and warm, so they turned back to brandy.

"She hasn't been abused," Southerland said. "That's all I can tell you at this point. They haven't physically abused her—"

"What provoked the arrest?"

"I don't know . . . everything, I suppose."

"Her visit to Spangler's man in Madrid?"

"Seems likely."

"The money she took from Cramer?"

"That too."

"The Somme? That especially?"