He got up; the mere statement of what she had done, now that he was face to face with her, infuriated him to a sort of madness of rage. 'If you will excuse the expression, you' devil,' he said. He came a step nearer, and saw her shrink from him, and look round as if to see where the bell was. 'No, no; I am not going to touch you,' he said. 'You needn't be frightened.' He took from his pocket the letters, and unfolded them. 'Do you remember this, and this?' he said. 'And this, a copy of the instructions you gave? All that I think I could have forgiven you. But on the top of it, you tell Amelie. By your own confession you tell her that, and anything more, I suppose, that occurred to you. No doubt you told her that you had gratified my passion for you. That is the only thing that can account for the change that came over her from the time she saw you.' Dorothy's frightened look had passed completely off. 'Give me those, Bertie,' she said quietly. 'Before God, I swear to give you them back. You can trust me. I don't use that name unless I mean it.' His anger had so transported him that his errand to her had been forgotten. He had come to ask for her help, to learn anyhow, if she would tell him, exactly what she had said to Amelie. But the sight of her had somehow driven him to frenzy, to a pitch of passionate anger which he had not known he was capable of. But her words, the quietness of them, the sobriety with which she spoke, sobered him. There was something, too, in her tone that convinced him. So in silence he handed them all to her. She read through them all without once raising her eyes. Then she gave them back to him, and sat still with eyes downcast. When she raised them, he saw that they were full of tears. 'I know nothing whatever of the whole affair,' she said. 'The torn letter, I think, is yours. I remember tearing it up myself on the day on which you came to see me in New York. The other two I know nothing of. And you thought--you, Bertie, who knew me--thought I had done that.' 'I thought you had done that!' he repeated mockingly. Then his doubt stood beside him again, a little clearer, a little more precise in outline, and his tone changed. 'You didn't do it?' he said. She looked at him, half in scorn, half in pity. 'I!' she said in a tone indescribable, and no more. She was far too deeply hurt to reproach him; no words could meet the situation. But, looking at him, she saw the anger die out of his face, and knew that he believed her. 'I am sorry, I am sorry,' he stammered. She made a gesture of impatience. 'Tell me all about it from the beginning,' she said; and she heard him in silence. 'And you thought I had done that,' she said. 'Certainly it looked like it, but you ought to have known it was impossible. You did not. Now listen.' She paused a moment.