The blame for her, the credit for him! From the nettle danger his wits had plucked the flower safety.
But for his fears he could have chuckled; and then he heard her leave the room, and relock the door.

With a gasp of relief, he retired a pace or two, and waited, his eyes fixed on the doorway through which she must enter.
She was long in coming, and when she came his hand, extended to receive the letters, fell by his side, the whispered question died on his lips.
Her face told him that she had failed.

It might have told him also that she had built far more on the attempt than she had let him perceive.

But what was that to him?
It was enough for him that she had not the letters.

He could have torn her with his hands.