then his discovery of the truth and their talk in the ruined house; of Byrne's accusation and arrest of her; of the irruption of the German and his attack; his repetition of the order to her to go to Switzerland; and of her waiting since.
"I told him when he accused me and I could not make him believe, that you would know about me, Gerry!" she cried. "I thought everything would be all right if only I could get you! And oh—oh I've wanted you to come ever since!"
She did not mean to say that, he saw; it was not possible that this cry was planned and practiced for effect. It burst so unbidden, so unguarded from her breast; and seized upon him like her hand—her small, soft, strong little hand—closing upon his heart. It told to him a thousand times better than all the words she had just said, of her loneliness and fears and dreads fought out all by herself in her wild, solitary, desperate adventure. And Gerry, gazing down at her, did not ask himself again whether he believed. Instead he saw her once more as first he had seen her at Mrs. Corliss', and his heart compressed as never it had before as he thought of her, a little office girl making twenty-five dollars a week, coming to that big, rich house not knowing who or what she would meet there and standing up so singly and alone for her country and her faith; he saw her again as she was on the Ribot, surrounded by new terrors and with perils to her increasing day by day and playing her part so well; and now passions and sensations which he had fought and had tried to put off, overwhelmed him again. He felt her, wet and small with all her clothing clinging to her
