"Well, then," he muttered, dejectedly, "I do know."
"What do you know?"
"It was I who—"
"Who did what?"
"Who bribed William not to deliver the letters."
Westhove looked at him in dumb astonishment; darkness clouded his sight; everything was in a whirl; he did not hear, did not understand, forgetting that the truth had already flashed across his brain.
"You! You!" he gasped. "My God! but why?"
Van Maeren got up; he burst into tears.
"Because—because—I don't know. I cannot tell you. It is too vile."
Westhove had seized him by the shoulders: he shook him, and said in a hoarse roar: