All thought of self-defence melted away under the vehemence of Frank's tone. Bertie hardly had any curiosity even to know what had occurred to betray William's complicity; and he felt that it would be easiest now to give himself up completely, without reserve, since that which he had been dreading for weeks had come upon him, inevitably and fatally; since whatever was to happen would happen inevitably and fatally; and in his weakness he was conscious of the horrible pathos, the hopeless pity of his being what he was--of things being as they were. "Well, then," he muttered, dejectedly, "I do know." "What do you know?" "It was I who--" "Who did what?" "Who bribed William not to deliver the letters." Westhove looked at him in dumb astonishment; darkness clouded his sight; everything was in a whirl; he did not hear, did not understand, forgetting that the truth had already flashed across his brain. "You! You!" he gasped. "My God! but why?" Van Maeren got up; he burst into tears. "Because--because--I don't know. I cannot tell you. It is too vile." Westhove had seized him by the shoulders: he shook him, and said in a hoarse roar: "You damned villain, you will not tell me why? You will not tell me? Or must I shake it out of your body? Why? Tell me this instant!" "Because, because," sobbed Van Maeren, wringing his white hands. "Tell me--out with it." "Because I wanted to stay with you, and because if you married I should have had to go. I was so fond of you, and--and--" "Speak out. You were so fond of me--and then--"