Mysterious and omnipotent good fortune had crowned every investigation.

They knew all of Freya's doings.

They had even received from a secret agent exact data regarding her personality, the number by which she was represented in the director's office at Berlin, the salary that she was paid, as well as her reports during the past month.
Documents written by her personally, of an irrefutable culpability, had poured in without any one's knowing from what point they were sent or by whom.
Every time that the judge had placed before Freya's eyes one of these proofs, she looked at her lawyer in desperation.
"It is _they_!" she moaned.

"They who desire my death!" Her defender was of the same opinion.

The police had learned of her presence in France by a letter that her superiors in Barcelona had sent, stupidly disguised, written with regard to a code whose mystery had been discovered some time before by the French counter-spies.