‘What is it?’ he asked, moving to stand up.
‘Wait a moment!’
She went into her dressing-room and returned almost instantly, bringing a large envelope. He was seated again and she stood between him and the fireplace, facing him.
‘He wrote me seven letters,’ she said. ‘Here they are. I give them into your hands. Read them, and you will understand better.’
He took the envelope and held it a moment, looking up to her face with a gentle smile.
‘Thank you, my dear,’ he said. ‘I do not need any proofs in order to believe you.’
He rose then and tried to pass her, to reach the fire, evidently meaning to burn the letters at once.
The tears came suddenly to her eyes without overflowing, as they did sometimes when she was much moved by a generous word or deed, but she caught at his arm as he was in the act of tossing the letters into the flames. The envelope left his hand but fell short and lay on the polished tiles of the hearth. Maria stooped and picked it up.
‘No,’ she said quickly, ‘you must not burn them yet. I know you trust me now, but there is that other possibility. Some enemy of yours or mine may say that we wrote to each other. You must be able to answer that you have the real letters in your keeping.’
‘That is true,’ said Montalto, and he took the envelope back from her. ‘I will seal it and put it away.’