"And this money sustained you from the time you left England until your arrest in Paris?"

"The baron has always been a generous man."

"Then why did you find it necessary to request an additional five thousand francs from the German espionage center in Berlin?"

Her answer satisfied no one. "As I have said before, monsieur, all money received from abroad came only from the baron."

"Except, of course, for the five thousand francs mentioned in this telegram . . . correct?"

"No, monsieur, that is not correct."

"Then how do you account for these telegrams?"

"I do not account for them, sir. I deny them."

"Deny them, madame? How can you deny them? I am holding an exact transcription of the text in my hand at this very moment. How can you possibly deny them? Please, I am certain that the court would be most interested to know . . . how can you possibly deny them?"

And so it went for another thirty to forty minutes: a series of damaging questions about the documents, and answers that were only denials. Through it all she once more found herself compulsively knotting a handkerchief around her fingers.

It was seven o'clock when the court recessed. The anticipated thundershower had passed, and the evening remained hot and windless. After a meal of shredded pork and potatoes, she was again locked in her temporary cell in the depot. A female guard, posted just in sight of the bars, ensured that there would be no suicides.

The cell lay at the end of a long and narrow corridor. There were no windows, and no real ventilation. The light was also bad. On entering, she undressed to a brief slip, then lay down on the cot. At first there were continual voices and echoes from above. Then it gradually grew quiet. By the time that Charles Dunbar appeared, there were virtually no sounds at all.

He must have been watching her sleep for a long time before she awoke. He sat in the guard's chair, facing her through the bars. There was a cigarette between his fingers, and several butts on the floor. There also seemed to be a bottle of whisky or brandy on the ledge. The eyes, too, looked bad with dark circles and dull whites.

"Hello, Margaretha."

She sat up, reaching for something to cover her bare thighs, but the sheets and blankets had vanished. "What do you want, Charles?"

"To talk. After all, it's been a long time."

She clutched her hands to her shoulders as if cold. "Yes, it's been a long time."

"And I don't suppose you've given me much thought, have you?"

She sighed. Her hair was still damp from perspiration, and formed dark ringlets around her face. "No, Charles. I suppose I never gave you much thought. Apparently that was a mistake."

He got up, unlocked the door, and stepped inside. He was a good deal heavier than she remembered, the hands seeming especially fleshy.