My eyes were now, as I held him off a little again, on Miles’s own face, in which the collapse of mockery showed me how complete was the ravage of uneasiness. What was prodigious was that at last, by my success, his sense was sealed and his communication stopped: he knew that he was in presence, but knew not of what, and knew still less that I also was and that I did know. And what did this strain of trouble matter when my eyes went back to the window only to see that the air was clear again and—by my personal triumph—the influence quenched? There was nothing there. I felt that the cause was mine and that I should surely get _all_. “And you found nothing!”—I let my elation out. He gave the most mournful, thoughtful little headshake. “Nothing.” “Nothing, nothing!” I almost shouted in my joy. “Nothing, nothing,” he sadly repeated. I kissed his forehead; it was drenched. “So what have you done with it?” “I’ve burned it.” “Burned it?” It was now or never. “Is that what you did at school?” Oh, what this brought up! “At school?” “Did you take letters?—or other things?” “Other things?” He appeared now to be thinking of something far off and that reached him only through the pressure of his anxiety. Yet it did reach him. “Did I _steal?_” I felt myself redden to the roots of my hair as well as wonder if it were more strange to put to a gentleman such a question or to see him take it with allowances that gave the very distance of his fall in the world. “Was it for that you mightn’t go back?” The only thing he felt was rather a dreary little surprise. “Did you know I mightn’t go back?” “I know everything.” He gave me at this the longest and strangest look. “Everything?” “Everything. Therefore _did_ you—?” But I couldn’t say it again. Miles could, very simply. “No. I didn’t steal.” My face must have shown him I believed him utterly; yet my hands—but it was for pure tenderness—shook him as if to ask him why, if it was all for nothing, he had condemned me to months of torment. “What then did you do?” He looked in vague pain all round the top of the room and drew his breath, two or three times over, as if with difficulty. He might have been standing at the bottom of the sea and raising his eyes to some faint green twilight. “Well—I said things.” “Only that?” “They thought it was enough!” “To turn you out for?” Never, truly, had a person “turned out” shown so little to explain it as this little person! He appeared to weigh my question, but in a manner quite detached and almost helpless. “Well, I suppose I oughtn’t.” “But to whom did you say them?” He evidently tried to remember, but it dropped—he had lost it. “I don’t know!”