"_I—I?_ I didn’t mean that I _knew_. I was only wondering, guessing. It’s just as I told Mr. Whitney that day. And you seem to think I’m not open, am hiding something. Why should I do that? What motive could I have to keep secret anything I might know that would bring Mr. Barker to justice?" As she spoke she moved toward me, bringing up in front of me, her eyes almost fiercely demanding. Mine fell before them. It was no use. With my memory of those letters, of her mysterious plot with Barker clear in my mind, I could go no farther. I muttered some sentences of apology, was sorry if I’d offended her, hadn’t meant to imply anything, was carried away by my zeal to find the absconder. She seemed mollified and moved to her seat by the desk. Then suddenly, as if a spring that had upheld her had snapped, she dropped into the chair, limp and pallid. "I’m tired, I’m not myself," she faltered. "I don’t seem to know what I’m saying. All this—all these dreadful things—have torn me to pieces——" Her voice broke and she averted her face but not before I’d seen that her eyes were shining with tears. That sight brought a passionate exclamation out of me. I went toward her, my arms ready to go out and enfold her. But she waved me back with an imploring gesture: "Oh go—I beg of you, go—I want peace—I want to be alone. Please go—Please don’t torment me any more. I can’t bear it." She dropped her face into her hands, shrinking back from me, and I turned and left her. My steps as I went down the hall were the only sounds in the place, but the silence seemed to thrill with unloosed emotions, to hum and sing with the vibrations that came from my nerves and my heart and my soul. The big moments in your life ought to come in beautiful places, at least that’s what I’ve always thought. But they don’t—anyway with me. For as I went down that dingy staircase, full of queer smells, dark and squalid, the greatest moment I’d ever known came to me—I loved her! I’d loved her always—I knew it now. Out in the country those few first times, but then more as a vision, something that wove through my thoughts, aloof and unapproachable, like an inspiration and a dream. And that day in Whitney’s office as a woman. And every day since, deeper and stronger, seeing her beset, realizing her danger, longing with every fiber to help her. It was the cause of that burst of the old fury, of the instinct that kept me close and secretive, of this day’s fruitless attempt to make her speak. All the work, the growing dread, the rush of events, had held me from seeing, crowded out recognition of the wonderful thing. I stood in the half-lit, musty little hall in a trance-like ecstasy, outside myself, holding only that one thought—I loved her—I loved her—I loved her!