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appellation.
    “Pink,” Irene said approvingly. “A pink is as lovely a flower as a rose, Nell, although it is more often home-grown.” She smiled at the girl. “It suits you. Now then, Pink, you must realize that the reason we two are here and not the French gentlemen of the SCirete, is that they believe that you would testify more easily to one who spoke your language, to another American, to a woman.”
    The girl (I cannot call her Pink!) took a breath so deep it seemed to threaten her corset strings with breaking.
    “You must excuse me. I have never seen anything so horrendous in my life.”
    “It is not a very long life,” Irene pointed out.
    “I am nineteen!”
    This was declared as a challenge.
    “With whom do you stay in Paris?” Irene went on.
    “No one. I am on my own.” Her youthful indignation collapsed. “I stay here.”
    “And what is this place?”
    That question engaged our young miss’s full attention. She eyed the Old World richness, plucked at the bejeweled tissue of her skirt as if surprised that she was wearing it, and took another breath.
    “It is a maison de tolérance.”
    Those words struck a chill into my soul. I knew enough French to recognize the oft-employed word for “house” that is as familiar as the word “chez” for the same meaning in English. And I understood the word tolérance in either English or French. Indeed, it was likely spelled the same in both languages and thus spelled out the odious situation for me. We were in what the French call a brothel. Oh, a very elegant brothel for the use of only the most blue-blooded, wealthy, and well-known roués, but a brothel nevertheless.
    Irene did not blink at this revelation. “Have you had some of the brandy yet?” She nodded at the libation.
    The girl shook her head.
    “It was meant medicinally. I think you should sip it. Nell, can you—?”
    By now I had realized that the young woman was in shock, as who would not be to find oneself unexpectedly in a brothel, however opulent?
    I slipped quietly to the sofa and sat beside her. Lifting the delicate glass like a medicine vial, I brought it to her lips.
    “You must try some. I know it will taste strong and nasty, but you will feel better for it.”
    The girl glanced at me, then obeyed. After a tiny sip, her hand reached up to take the glass stem. I felt the tremor as its custody transferred from my hand to her own, but at least she had released a measure of that paralytic grip she kept upon herself.
    As I returned to my chair I noticed that Irene was nodding approvingly at me.
    “Not too much,” she advised the girl. “You want to clear your head, not cloud your memory. Now. We have been told nothing of what is wrong here. We rely on you.”
    The brandy appeared to have been a hair too effective. “Pink” shook her charming head as if awakening from a bad dream. “Why are you here?” she demanded. “You cannot be from the police. They do not let women do that sort of thing on the Continent.”
    “And they do in the United States?” I demanded myself, surprised.
    “Of course they do, Nell.” Irene did not glance at me. She was still concentrating on the girl. “I was an agent for the Pinkertons when I lived in America, and also in England, for a time.”
    The girl clutched at the familiar word. “A Pinkerton. They have sent a Pinkerton to a Pink? How crazy, but then this whole place is crazy . . . of course, it doesn’t help that I am just learning the language.”
    Pink laughed so hard she sputtered into the brandy glass, then coughed violently, until her eyes watered and she hiccoughed.
    I recognize incipient hysterics when I see them and rose to go to her, but Irene shook her head at me.
    “Is that why you’re wearing man’s dress?” Pink asked Irene through her tears and hiccoughs. “I feel like Alice in Wonderland. If you were a White Rabbit instead of a lady Pinkerton in man’s dress . . . I’m sorry. I’m not usually such a fool. But it was