“Tell me!  Answer me!  I want to know.”

Eve’s attitude was difficult to read.  She stood twisting the string of diamonds between her fingers.

“Tell me?” he said again.

She continued to look at him for a moment; then, as if some fresh impulse moved her, she turned away from him towards the fire.

“I cannot,” she said.  “We—­I—­I could not set myself to judge—­any one.”

Loder held himself rigidly in hand.

“Eve,” he said, quietly, “I was at the `Arcadian’ to-night.  The play was ‘Other Men’s Shoes.’  I suppose you’ve read the book ’Other Men’s Shoes’?”

She was leaning on the mantel-piece and her face was invisible to him.  “Yes, I have read it,” she said, without looking round.

“It is the story of an extraordinary likeness between two men.  Do you believe such a likeness possible?  Do you think such a thing could exist?” He spoke with difficulty; his brain and tongue both felt numb.

Eve let the diamond chain slip from her fingers.  “Yes,” she said, nervously.  “Yes, I do believe it.  Such things have been—­”

Loder caught at the words.  “You’re quite right,” he said, quickly.  “You’re quite right.  The thing is possible—­I’ve proved it.  I know a man so like me that you, even you, could not tell us apart.”

Eve was silent, still averting her face.

In dire difficulty he labored on.  “Eve,” he began once more, “such a likeness is a serious thing—­a terrible danger—­a terrible temptation.  Those who have no experience of it cannot possibly gauge its pitfalls—­” Again he paused, but again the silent figure by the fireplace gave him no help.

“Eve,” he exclaimed, suddenly, “if you only knew, if you only guessed what I’m trying to say—­” The perplexity, the whole harassed suffering of his mind showed in the words.  Loder, the strong, the resourceful, the self-contained, was palpably, painfully at a loss.  There was almost a note of appeal in the vibration of his voice.

And Eve, standing by the fireplace, heard and understood.  In that moment of comprehension all that had held her silent, all the conflicting motives that had forbidden speech, melted away before the unconscious demand for help.  Quietly and yet quickly she turned, her whole face transfigured by a light that seemed to shine from within —­something singularly soft and tender.

“There’s no need to say anything,” she said, simply, “because I know.”

It came quietly, as most great revelations come.  Her voice was low and free from any excitement, her face beautiful in its complete unconsciousness of self.  In that supreme moment all her thought, all her sympathy was for the man—­and his suffering.

To Loder there was a space of incredulity; then his brain slowly swung to realization.  “You know?” he repeated, blankly.  “You know?”

Without answering she walked to a cabinet that stood in the window, unlocked a drawer, and drew out several sheets of flimsy white paper, crumpled in places and closely covered with writing.  Without a word she carried them back and held them out.