I have likened it to a sentinel, but its slow wheel,
for a moment, was rather the prowl of a baffled beast.
My present quickened courage, however, was such that, not too
much to let it through, I had to shade, as it were, my flame.
Meanwhile the glare of the face was again at the window, the scoundrel
fixed as if to watch and wait. It was the very confidence
that I might now defy him, as well as the positive certitude,
by this time, of the child's unconsciousness, that made me go on.
"What did you take it for?"
"To see what you said about me."
"You opened the letter?"
"I opened it."
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.
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