So Ruth told him about herself, and the first meeting with Gerry Hull, and the pencil boxes, and the beggar on State Street. She did not proceed without interruptions now; he challenged and catechized her. If he had refused her whole story, it would not have been so bad; but he was believing part of it--the part which fitted his passions. He believed that the Germans had found the body of Cynthia Gail, and he believed more than that. He believed that they had killed her, and he cried out to Ruth to tell him when, and how. He believed that the Germans, having killed Cynthia, had tried to make use of her identity and her passport; and that they had succeeded! His hands were upon Ruth once more, holding her sternly and firmly. “I put you under arrest,” he said to her hoarsely, “as accessory in the murder of Cynthia Gail and as a German spy.” And yet, as he held her there before him in the dim light of the tallow wick in the sconce upon the wall, she seemed to him, for flashes of time, to be the girl he accused her of having killed. “Cynthia; where are you?” he pleaded with her once as though, within Ruth, was the soul of his love whom he could call to come out and take possession of this living form. Then he had her under arrest again. “Come with me!” he commanded, and he thrust her toward the door. But now Ruth fought against him. “No; we must stay here!” “Why?” “Till you will believe in me!” “Then we’ll never leave here. Will you come, or must I take you?” “Leave me alone just a minute.” “So you can get away?” “No; just you stay here. I’ll go back there,” Ruth tossed toward the corner where she had sat. “There’s no way out. Only--let go of me!” He did so, watching her suspiciously. She dropped into her seat in the corner under the candle. “I’ve told you why I did this,” she said. “And you didn’t fool me.” “I’ve no proof of anything I’ve told you,” Ruth went on, “only because, if you’ll think about it, you’ll see I couldn’t carry proof.” “I should say not.” “But I’ve done something since I’ve been here which proves what I am.” “What? Helping refugees out of Picardy? What does that prove--except that you’ve nerve?” “Nothing,” Ruth admitted. “If I was a German agent, I might have done that. I wasn’t thinking of that.” “What of, then?” She was thinking about her exposure of De Trevenac; but, though now it was known that Louis de Trevenac had been proved a spy, had been tried and punished, no explanation had been given as to how he had been caught. Those who tried him had not known, perhaps; only Gerry knew. “Gerry Hull will tell you,” Ruth replied. “I don’t ask you to take my word about myself anymore; I ask you only, before you accuse me, to send for him.” “Gerry Hull!” Byrne iterated, approaching her closely again and gazing down hostilely. For an instant he had not been able to disassociate Gerry Hull from himself as a rival for Cynthia Gail. “So he knows all about you, does he?” “No; he thinks I am Cynthia Gail; but----”