I had felt I could risk such directness only by making it extravagant — by suggesting it as barely imaginable that she could so have played our game; and during the instant for which I had now pulled her up I could judge I had been right. It was an instant that settled everything, for I saw her, with intensity, with gallantry too, surprised but not really embarrassed, recognise that of course she must simply lie. I had been justified by making it so possible for her to lie. “It would have been a short cut,” I said, “and even more strikingly perhaps — to do it justice — a bold deed. But it would have been, in strictness, a departure — wouldn’t it? — from our so distinguished little compact. Yet while I look at you,” I went on, “I wonder. Bold deeds are, after all, quite in your line; and I’m not sure I don’t rather want not to have missed so much possible comedy. ‘I have it for you from Mr. Long himself that, every appearance to the contrary notwithstanding, his stupidity is unimpaired’ — isn’t that, for the beauty of it, after all, what you’ve veraciously to give me?” We stood face to face a moment, and I laughed out. “The beauty of it would be great!”

I had given her time; I had seen her safely to shore. It was quite what I had meant to do, but she now took still better advantage than I had expected of her opportunity. She not only scrambled up the bank, she recovered breath and turned round. “Do you imagine he would have told me?”

It was magnificent, but I felt she was still to better it should I give her a new chance. “Who the lady really is? Well, hardly; and that’s why, as you so acutely see, the question of your having risked such a step has occurred to me only as a jest. Fancy indeed” — I piled it up — “your saying to him: ‘We’re all noticing that you’re so much less of an idiot than you used to be, and we’ve different views of the miracle’!”

I had been going on, but I was checked without a word from her. Her look alone did it, for, though it was a look that partly spoiled her lie, it — by that very fact — sufficed to my confidence. “I’ve not spoken to a creature.”

It was beautifully said, but I felt again the abysses that the mere saying of it covered, and the sense of these wonderful things was not a little, no doubt, in my immediate cheer. “Ah, then, we’re all right!” I could have rubbed my hands over it. “I mean, however,” I quickly added, “only as far as that. I don’t at all feel comfortable about your new theory itself, which puts me so wretchedly in the wrong.”

“Rather!” said Mrs. Briss almost gaily. “Wretchedly indeed in the wrong!”

“Yet only — equally of course,” I returned after a brief brooding, “if I come within a conceivability of accepting it. Are you conscious that, in default of Long’s own word — equivocal as that word would be — you press it upon me without the least other guarantee?”

“And pray,” she asked, “what guarantee had you?”

“For the theory with which we started? Why, our recognised fact. The change in the man. You may say,” I pursued, “that I was the first to speak for him; but being the first didn’t, in your view, constitute a weakness when it came to your speaking yourself for Mrs. Server. By which I mean,” I added, “speaking against her.”

She remembered, but not for my benefit. “Well, you then asked me my warrant. And as regards Mr. Long and your speaking against him —— ”

“Do you describe what I say as ‘against’ him?” I immediately broke in.

It took her but an instant. “Surely — to have made him out horrid.”

I could only want to fix it. “‘Horrid’ ——?”

“Why, having such secrets.” She was roundly ready now. “Sacrificing poor May.”

“But you, dear lady, sacrificed poor May! It didn’t strike you as horrid then.”

“Well, that was only,” she maintained, “because you talked me over.”

I let her see the full process of my taking — or not taking — this in. “And who is it then that — if, as you say, you’ve spoken to no one — has, as I may call it, talked you under?”

She completed, on the spot, her statement of a moment before. “Not a creature has spoken to me.”

I felt somehow the wish to make her say it in as many ways as possible — I seemed so to enjoy her saying it. This helped me to make my tone approve and encourage. “You’ve communicated so little with anyone!” I didn’t even make it a question.

It was scarce yet, however, quite good enough. “So little? I’ve not communicated the least mite.”

“Precisely. But don’t think me impertinent for having for a moment wondered. What I should say to you if you had, you know, would be that you just accused me.”

“Accused you?”

“Of talking too much.”

It came back to her dim. “Are we accusing each other?”

Her tone seemed suddenly to put us nearer together than we had ever been at all. “Dear no,” I laughed — “not each other; only with each other’s help, a few of our good friends.”

“A few?” She handsomely demurred. “But one or two at the best.”

“Or at the worst!” — I continued to laugh. “And not even those, it after all appears, very much!”

She didn’t like my laughter, but she was now grandly indulgent. “Well, I accuse no one.”

I was silent a little; then I concurred. “It’s doubtless your best line; and I really quite feel, at all events, that when you mentioned a while since that I talk too much you only meant too much to you.”

“Yes — I wasn’t imputing to you the same direct appeal. I didn’t suppose,” she explained, “that — to match your own supposition of me — you had resorted to May herself.”

“You didn’t suppose I had asked her?” The point was positively that she didn’t; yet it made us look at each other almost as hard as if she did. “No, of course you couldn’t have supposed anything so cruel — all the more that, as you knew, I had not admitted the possibility.”

She accepted my assent; but, oddly enough, with a sudden qualification that showed her as still sharply disposed to make use of any loose scrap of her embarrassed acuteness. “Of course, at the same time, you yourself saw that your not admitting the possibility would have taken the edge from your cruelty. It’s not the innocent,” she suggestively remarked, “that we fear to frighten.”

“Oh,” I returned, “I fear, mostly, I think, to frighten any one. I’m not particularly brave. I haven’t, at all events, in spite of my certitude, interrogated Mrs. Server, and I give you my word of honour that I’ve not had any denial from her to prop up my doubt. It still stands on its own feet, and it was its own battle that, when I came here at your summons, it was prepared to fight. Let me accordingly remind you,” I pursued, “in connection with that, of the one sense in which you were, as you a moment ago said, talked over by me. I persuaded you apparently that Long’s metamorphosis was not the work of Lady John. I persuaded you of nothing else.”

She looked down a little, as if again at a trap. “You persuaded me that it was the work of somebody.” Then she held up her head. “It came to the same thing.”

If I had credit then for my trap it at least might serve. “The same thing as what?”

“Why, as claiming that it was she.”

“Poor May — ‘claiming’? When I insisted it wasn’t!”

Mrs. Brissenden flushed. “You didn’t insist it wasn’t anybody!”

“Why should I when I didn’t believe so? I’ve left you in no doubt,” I indulgently smiled, “of my beliefs. It was somebody — and it still is.”

She looked about at the top of the room. “The mistake’s now yours.”

I watched her an instant. “Can you tell me then what one does to recover from such mistakes?”

“One thinks a little.”

“Ah, the more I’ve thought the deeper I’ve sunk! And that seemed to me the case with you this morning,” I added, “the more you thought.”

“Well, then,” she frankly declared, “I must have stopped thinking!”

It was a phenomenon, I sufficiently showed, that thought only could meet. “Could you tell me then at what point?”

She had to think even to do that. “At what point?”

“What in particular determined, I mean, your arrest? You surely didn’t — launched as you were — stop short all of yourself.”

She fronted me, after all, still so bravely that I believed her for an instant not to be, on this article, without an answer she could produce. The unexpected therefore broke for me when she fairly produced none. “I confess I don’t make out,” she simply said, “while you seem so little pleased that I agree with you.”

I threw back, in despair, both head and hands. “But, you poor, dear thing, you don’t in the least agree with me! You flatly contradict me. You deny my miracle.”

“I don’t believe in miracles,” she panted.

“So I exactly, at this late hour, learn. But I don’t insist on the name. Nothing is, I admit, a miracle from the moment one’s on the track of the cause, which was the scent we were following. Call the thing simply my fact.”

She gave her high head a toss. “If it’s yours it’s nobody else’s!”

“Ah, there’s just the question — if we could know all! But my point is precisely, for the present, that you do deny it.”

“Of course I deny it,” said Mrs. Briss.

I took a moment, but my silence held her. “Your ‘of course’ would be what I would again contest, what I would denounce and brand as the word too much — the word that spoils, were it not that it seems best, that it in any case seems necessary, to let all question of your consistency go.”

On that I had paused, and, as I felt myself still holding her, I was not surprised when my pause had an effect. “You do let it go?”

She had tried, I could see, to put the inquiry as all ironic. But it was not all ironic; it was, in fact, little enough so to suggest for me some intensification — not quite, I trust, wanton — of her suspense. I should be at a loss to say indeed how much it suggested or half of what it told. These things again almost violently moved me, and if I, after an instant, in my silence, turned away, it was not only to keep her waiting, but to make my elation more private. I turned away to that tune that I literally, for a few minutes, quitted her, availing myself thus, superficially, of the air of weighing a consequence. I wandered off twenty steps and, while I passed my hand over my troubled head, looked vaguely at objects on tables and sniffed absently at flowers in bowls. I don’t know how long I so lost myself, nor quite why — as I must for some time have kept it up — my companion didn’t now really embrace her possible alternative of rupture and retreat. Or rather, as to her action in this last matter, I am, and was on the spot, clear: I knew at that moment how much she knew she must not leave me without having got from me. It came back in waves, in wider glimpses, and produced in so doing the excitement I had to control. It could not but be exciting to talk, as we talked, on the basis of those suppressed processes and unavowed references which made the meaning of our meeting so different from its form. We knew ourselves — what moved me, that is, was that she knew me — to mean, at every point, immensely more than I said or than she answered; just as she saw me, at the same points, measure the space by which her answers fell short. This made my conversation with her a totally other and a far more interesting thing than any colloquy I had ever enjoyed; it had even a sharpness that had not belonged, a few hours before, to my extraordinary interview with Mrs. Server. She couldn’t afford to quarrel with me for catechising her; she couldn’t afford not to have kept, in her way, faith with me; she couldn’t afford, after inconceivable passages with Long, not to treat me as an observer to be squared. She had come down to square me; she was hanging on to square me; she was suffering and stammering and lying; she was both carrying it grandly off and letting it desperately go: all, all to square me. And I caught moreover perfectly her vision of her way, and I followed her way even while I judged it, feeling that the only personal privilege I could, after all, save from the whole business was that of understanding. I couldn’t save Mrs. Server, and I couldn’t save poor Briss; I could, however, guard, to the last grain of gold, my precious sense of their loss, their disintegration and their doom; and it was for this I was now bargaining.

It was of giving herself away just enough not to spoil for me my bargain over my treasure that Mrs. Briss’s bribe would consist. She would let me see as far as I would if she could feel sure I would do nothing; and it was exactly in this question of how much I might have scared my couple into the sense I could “do” that the savour of my suspense most dwelt. I could have made them uneasy, of course, only by making them fear my intervention; and yet the idea of their being uneasy was less wonderful than the idea of my having, with all my precautions, communicated to them a consciousness. This was so the last thing I had wanted to do that I felt, during my swift excursion, how much time I should need in the future for recovery of the process — all of the finest wind-blown intimations, woven of silence and secrecy and air — by which their suspicion would have throbbed into life. I could only, provisionally and sketchily, figure it out, this suspicion, as having, little by little — not with a sudden start — felt itself in the presence of my own, just as my own now returned the compliment. What came back to me, as I have said, in waves and wider glimpses, was the marvel of their exchange of signals, the phenomenon, scarce to be represented, of their breaking ground with each other. They both had their treasure to guard, and they had looked to each other with the instinct of help. They had felt, on either side, the victim possibly slip, and they had connected the possibility with an interest discernibly inspired in me by this personage, and with a relation discoverably established by that interest. It wouldn’t have been a danger, perhaps, if the two victims hadn’t slipped together; and more amazing, doubtless, than anything else was the recognition by my sacrificing couple of the opportunity drawn by my sacrificed from being conjoined in my charity. How could they know, Gilbert Long and Mrs. Briss, that actively to communicate a consciousness to my other friends had no part in my plan? The most I had dreamed of, I could honourably feel, was to assure myself of their independent possession of one. These things were with me while, as I have noted, I made Grace Brissenden wait, and it was also with me that, though I condoned her deviation, she must take it from me as a charity. I had presently achieved another of my full revolutions, and I faced her again with a view of her overture and my answer to her last question. The terms were not altogether what my pity could have wished, but I sufficiently kept everything together to have to see that there were limits to my choice. “Yes, I let it go, your change of front, though it vexes me a little — and I’ll in a moment tell you why — to have to. But let us put it that it’s on a condition.”

“Change of front?” she murmured while she looked at me. “Your expressions are not of the happiest.”

But I saw it was only again to cover a doubt. My condition, for her, was questionable, and I felt it would be still more so on her hearing what it was. Meanwhile, however, in spite of her qualification of it, I had fallen back, once and for all, on pure benignity. “It scarce matters if I’m clumsy when you’re practically so bland. I wonder if you’ll understand,” I continued, “if I make you an explanation.”

“Most probably,” she answered, as handsome as ever, “not.”

“Let me at all events try you. It’s moreover the one I just promised; which was no more indeed than the development of a feeling I’ve already permitted myself to show you. I lose” — I brought it out — “by your agreeing with me!”

“‘Lose’?”

“Yes; because while we disagreed you were, in spite of that, on the right side.”

“And what do you call the right side?”

“Well” — I brought it out again — “on the same side as my imagination.”

But it gave her at least a chance. “Oh, your imagination!”

“Yes — I know what you think of it; you’ve sufficiently hinted how little that is. But it’s precisely because you regard it as rubbish that I now appeal to you.”

She continued to guard herself by her surprises. “Appeal? I thought you were on the ground, rather,” she beautifully smiled, “of dictation.”

“Well, I’m that too. I dictate my terms. But my terms are in themselves the appeal.” I was ingenious but patient. “See?”

“How in the world can I see?”

“Voyons, then. Light or darkness, my imagination rides me. But of course if it’s all wrong I want to get rid of it. You can’t, naturally, help me to destroy the faculty itself, but you can aid in the defeat of its application to a particular case. It was because you so smiled, before, on that application, that I valued even my minor difference with you; and what I refer to as my loss is the fact that your frown leaves me struggling alone. The best thing for me, accordingly, as I feel, is to get rid altogether of the obsession. The way to do that, clearly, since you’ve done it, is just to quench the fire. By the fire I mean the flame of the fancy that blazed so for us this morning. What the deuce have you, for yourself, poured on it? Tell me,” I pleaded, “and teach me.”

Equally with her voice her face echoed me again. “Teach you?”

“To abandon my false gods. Lead me back to peace by the steps you’ve trod. By so much as they must have remained traceable to you, shall I find them of interest and profit. They must in fact be most remarkable: won’t they even — for what I may find in them — be more remarkable than those we should now be taking together if we hadn’t separated, if we hadn’t pulled up?” That was a proposition I could present to her with candour, but before her absence of precipitation had permitted her much to consider it I had already followed it on. “You’ll just tell me, however, that since I do pull up and turn back with you we shall just have not separated. Well, then, so much the better — I see you’re right. But I want,” I earnestly declared, “not to lose an inch of the journey.”

She watched me now as a Roman lady at the circus may have watched an exemplary Christian. “The journey has been a very simple one,” she said at last. “With my mind made up on a single point, it was taken at a stride.”

I was all interest. “On a single point?” Then, as, almost excessively deliberate, she still kept me: “You mean the still commonplace character of Long’s — a — consciousness?”

She had taken at last again the time she required. “Do you know what I think?”

“It’s exactly what I’m pressing you to make intelligible.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Briss, “I think you’re crazy.”

It naturally struck me. “Crazy?”

“Crazy.”

I turned it over. “But do you call that intelligible?”

She did it justice. “No: I don’t suppose it can be so for you if you are insane.”

I risked the long laugh which might have seemed that of madness. “‘If I am’ is lovely!” And whether or not it was the special sound, in my ear, of my hilarity, I remember just wondering if perhaps I mightn’t be. “Dear woman, it’s the point at issue!”

But it was as if she too had been affected. “It’s not at issue for me now.”

I gave her then the benefit of my stirred speculation. “It always happens, of course, that one is one’s self the last to know. You’re perfectly convinced?”

She not ungracefully, for an instant, faltered; but since I really would have it ——! “Oh, so far as what we’ve talked of is concerned, perfectly!”

“And it’s actually what you’ve come down then to tell me?”

“Just exactly what. And if it’s a surprise to you,” she added, “that I should have come down — why, I can only say I was prepared for anything.”

“Anything?” I smiled.

“In the way of a surprise.”

I thought; but her preparation was natural, though in a moment I could match it. “Do you know that’s what I was too?”

“Prepared ——?”

“For anything in the way of a surprise. But only from you,” I explained. “And of course — yes,” I mused, “I’ve got it. If I am crazy,” I went on — “it’s indeed simple.”

She appeared, however, to feel, from the influence of my present tone, the impulse, in courtesy, to attenuate. “Oh, I don’t pretend it’s simple!”

“No? I thought that was just what you did pretend.”

“I didn’t suppose,” said Mrs. Briss, “that you’d like it. I didn’t suppose that you’d accept it or even listen to it. But I owed it to you —— ” She hesitated.

“You owed it to me to let me know what you thought of me even should it prove very disagreeable?”

That perhaps was more than she could adopt. “I owed it to myself,” she replied with a touch of austerity.

“To let me know I’m demented?”

“To let you know I’m not.” We each looked, I think, when she had said it, as if she had done what she said. “That’s all.”

“All?” I wailed. “Ah, don’t speak as if it were so little. It’s much. It’s everything.”

“It’s anything you will!” said Mrs. Briss impatiently. “Good-night.”

“Good-night?” I was aghast. “You leave me on it?”

She appeared to profess for an instant all the freshness of her own that she was pledged to guard. “I must leave you on something. I couldn’t come to spend a whole hour.”

“But do you ............