He, in the street outside, knew just how she would do it. Then she saw that the letter was unfastened. How often had Tom said that there were to be no secrets between them! This was _his_ letter. But it might hold Dick's secrets. But then, if she knew Dick's secrets she might be able to help him. He was in trouble--anyone could see that--awful trouble. She turned the letter over and over in her hands. He, without, walking with half-closed eyes, felt that she was so turning it. Suddenly she pulled the letter out and read it. He, out in the gas-lit night, knew how it would strike at her pity, her tenderness, her strong love of all that was generous and noble. He pictured the scene that must be when he should re-enter her room, and his heart beat wildly. He held himself in; he was playing the game now in deadly earnest. He would give her time to think of him, to pity him--time even to wonder whether, after all, duty and honour had not risen up in their might to forbid him to dare to try his faith by another sight of her. He waited, keenly aware that long as the waiting was to him, who knew what the ending was to be, it must be far, far longer for her, who did not know. At last he went back to her. And the scene that he had pictured in the night where the east wind swept the street was acted out now, exactly as he had foreseen it. She held in her hand the open letter. She came towards him, still holding it. "I've read your letter," she said. In her heart she was saying, "I must be brave. Never mind modesty and propriety. Tom could never love me like this. _He's_ a hero--my hero." In the silence that followed her confession he seemed to hear almost the very words of her thought. He hung his head and stood before her in the deep humility of a chidden child. "I am sorry," he said. "I am ashamed. Forgive me. I couldn't help it. No one could. Good-bye. Try to forgive me--" He turned to go, but she caught him by the arms. He had been almost sure she would. "You mustn't go," she said. "Oh--I _am_ sorry for Tom--but it's not the same for him. There are lots of people he'd like just as well--but you--" "Hush!" he said gently, "don't think of me. I shall be all right. I shall get over it." His sad, set smile assured her that he never would--never, in this world or the next. Her eyes were shining with the stress of the scene: his with the charm of it. "You are so strong, so brave, so good," she made herself say. "I can't let you go. Oh--don't you see--I can't let you suffer. You've suffered so much already--you've been so noble. Oh--it's better to know now. If I'd found out later--" She hung her head and waited. But he would not spare her. Since he had sold his soul he would have the price: the full price, to the last blush, the last tear, the last tremble in the pretty voice. "Let me go," he said, and his voice shook with real passion, "let me go--I can't bear it." He took her hands gently from his arms and held them lightly.