“But he gave you money. Did the men give you money, too?”
“Oh God,” she sobbed, “don’t ask–”
“Who were they?” She did not reply, then Karden shouted, quite suddenly; it was the first time he had raised his voice. “_Who?_”
“I don’t know. They came in a car. Friends of Alec.”
“More friends? What did they want?”
“I don’t know. They kept asking me what he had told me. They told me to get in touch with them if–”
“_How?_ _How_ get in touch with them?”
At last she replied: “He lived in Chelsea. . . his name was Smiley.. . George Smiley. . . I was to ring him.”
“And did you?”
“No!”
Karden had put down his file. A deathly silence had descended on the court. Pointing toward Leanias, Karden said, in a voice more impressive because it was perfectly under control:
“Smiley wanted to know whether Leamas had told her too much. Leamas had done the one thing British Intelligence had never expected him to do: he had taken a girl and wept on her shoulder.”
Then Karden laughed quietly, as if it were all such a neat joke. “Just as Karl Riemeck did. He’s made the same mistake.”
“Did Leamas ever talk about himself?” Karden continued.
“No.”
“You know nothing about his past?”
“No. I knew he’d done something in Berlin. Something for the Government.”
“Then he did talk about his past, didn’t he? Did he tell you he had been married?”
There was a long silence. Liz nodded.
“Why didn’t you see him after he went to prison? You could have visited him.”
“I didn’t think he’d want me to.”
“I see. Did you write to him?”
“No. Yes, once . . . just to tell him I’d wait. I didn’t think he’d mind.”
“You didn’t think he would want that either?”
“No.”
“And when he had served his time in prison, you didn’t try to get in touch with him?”
“No.”
“Did he have anywhere to go, did he have a job waiting for him–friends who would take him in?”
“I don’t know. . . I don’t know.”
“In fact, you were finished with him, weren’t you?” Karden asked with a sneer. “Had you found another lover?”
“No! I waited for him . . . I’ll always wait for him.” She checked herself. “I wanted him to come back.”
“Then why had you not written? Why didn’t you try to find out where he was?”
“He didn’t want me to, don’t you see! He made me promise. . . never to follow him. . . never to . . .”
“_So he expected to go to prison, did he?_” Karden demanded triumphantly.
“No–I don’t know. How can I tell you what I don’t know?”
“And on that last evening,” Karden persisted, his voice harsh and bullying, “on the evening before he hit the grocer, did he make you renew your promise? Well, did he?”
With infinite weariness, she nodded in a pathetic gesture of capitulation. “Yes.”
“And you said good-bye?”
“We said good-bye.”
“After supper, of course. It was quite late. Or did you spend the night with him?”
“After supper. I went home–not straight home. I went for a walk first, I don’t know where. Just walking.”
“What reason did he give for breaking off your relationship?”
“He didn’t break it off,” she said. “Never. He just said there was something he had to do; someone he had to get even with, whatever it cost, and afterwards, one day perhaps, when it was all over.. . he would… come back, if I was still there and. . .”
“And you said,” Karden suggested with irony, “that you would always wait for him, no doubt? That you would always love him?”
“Yes,” Liz replied simply.
“Did he say he would send you money?”
“He said. . . he said things weren’t as bad as they seemed. That I would be.. . looked after.”
“And that was why you didn’t inquire, afterwards, wasn’t it, when some Charity in the City casually gave you a thousand pounds?”
“Yes! Yes, that’s right! Now you know everything– you knew it all already. Why did you send for me if you knew?”