“Odeon—Odeonsplatz,” I muttered, trying to understand. “What is the Odeonsplatz? A square in some German city, isn’t it?”
“It’s a square in the capital of Bavaria—Munich.”
“But—but she isn't a German, is she? Is she?” I repeated, staring at Speed, who was looking keenly at me, with eyes partly closed.
There was a long silence.
“Well, upon my soul!” I said, slowly, emphasizing every word with a noiseless blow on the table.
“Didn’t you know it? Wait! Hold on,” he said, “let’s go slowly—let’s go very slowly. She is partly German by birth. That proves nothing. Granted that Jarras suspected her, not as a social agitator, but as a German agent. Granted he did not tell you what he suspected, but merely ordered her arrest with the others—perhaps under cover of Buckhurst’s arrest—you know what a secret man, the Emperor was—how, if he wanted a man, he’d never chase him, but run in the opposite direction and head him off half-way around the world. So, granted all this, I say, what’s to prove Jarras was right?”
“Does her dossier prove it? You have read it.”
“Well, her dossier was rather incomplete. We knew that she went about a good deal in Paris—went to the Tuileries, too. She was married once. Didn’t you know even that?” 315
“Married!” I exclaimed.
“To a Russian brute—I’ve forgotten his name, but I’ve seen him—one of the kind with high cheek-bones and black eyes. She got her divorce in England; that’s on record, and we have it in her dossier. Then, going back still further, we know that her father was a Bavarian, a petty noble of some sort—baron, I believe. Her mother’s name was Elven, a Breton peasant; it was a mésalliance—trouble of all sorts—I forget, but I believe her uncle brought her up. Her uncle was military attaché of the German embassy to Paris.... You see how she slipped into society—and you know what society under the Empire was.”