There was also a letter, sixteen encoded pages from Craven to Mansfield Cummings. Typical of Craven's approach to the game, the letter was filled with wry humor and dangerous optimism. There were several snide remarks concerning Spangler and Michard, several complimentary notes regarding Gray. Responding to an earlier suggestion that the French be enlisted for tactical support, Craven wrote that it was almost insulting to assume that a few good English lads were incapable of capturing two foreign spies.

Chapter Six

Chapter Six

THE Fontainebleau estate, then as now, was a pastoral place. There were distant chains of low hills rising from the river, shallow dingles, and deep woods. Proust would later write of this country, recalling memories of tadpole-haunted streams; and although somewhat subdued by winter, Gray, too, clearly found the landscape enchanting, capturing it in watercolor ...

He arrived in the early afternoon. Michard sent a carriage to meet him at the station. A gathering storm never materialized, and there were late-blooming roses in the garden. Earlier Margaretha had also collected a spray of hawthorns and a few surviving chrysanthemums for the parlor.

The first evening was somber. Following plates of cold pheasant Gray shared a bottle of port with Michard. Margaretha remained in the background, leafing through a magazine by firelight. What with the wine and his persistent exhaustion, it seemed that every sentence was a little dislocated. While Michard kept talking about a phantom stag he had seen in the forest, Margaretha hummed cabaret songs.

There was one telling moment, a brief conversation with Zelle. It came as Gray was moving up the staircase to his bedroom. There were several moments of silence; then suddenly she followed him and took hold of his arm.

"I'm glad you came/7 she whispered. "Especially for Rolland's sake."

He gave her a strained smile. "I'm glad too." "But you should know that Rolland hasn't been himself. He hasn't been sleeping, and he hardly eats."

"Perhaps he's just tired—"

"No. It's more than that. Which is why I'm glad you're here ... so you can help him."

He tried to pull his arm away but she still wouldn't let go. "Me?"

"Well, he's fond of you, isn't he? I mean he's really very fond of you."

A little later Gray heard them talking through the walls. Michard seemed to be complaining about a bad dream, while Zelle offered the sort of affection that any man would have killed for.

From the start, Gray supposed that this was what he had always wanted—a conflict reduced to the utter simplicity of three people in an isolated country home. After shutting his bedroom door he remained awake for hours, toying with the revolver, senselessly spinning the chamber until he was certain that the pretense was over. This had nothing to do with England. This was personal. This, damn it, was for Zelle.