"Ah, the more I've thought the deeper I've sunk! And that seemed to me the case with you this morning," I added, "the more you thought."
"Well, then," she frankly declared, "I must have stopped thinking!"
It was a phenomenon, I sufficiently showed, that thought only could meet. "Could you tell me then at what point?"
She had to think even to do that. "At what point?"
"What in particular determined, I mean, your arrest? You surely didn't—launched as you were—stop short all of yourself."
She fronted me, after all, still so bravely that I believed her for an instant not to be, on this article, without an answer she could produce. The unexpected therefore broke for me when she fairly produced none. "I confess I don't make out," she simply said, "while you seem so little pleased that I agree with you."
I threw back, in despair, both head and hands. "But, you poor, dear thing, you don't in the least agree with me! You flatly contradict me. You deny my miracle."
"I don't believe in miracles," she panted.
"So I exactly, at this late hour, learn. But I don't insist on the name. Nothing is, I admit, a miracle from the moment one's on the track of the cause, which was the scent we were following. Call the thing simply my fact."
She gave her high head a toss. "If it's yours it's nobody else's!"