“Yes,” he answered, releasing her and instantly producing the note and the gold ornament.  “Is that your paper?  Is this your pin?  Answer me—­or no! they answer for themselves.  You need say nothing, for you can have nothing to say.  They are yours and you know it.  If they are not enough there is the woman who let you in, who saw you bring them.  What more do you want?”

As long as Giovanni’s accusations had been vague and general, Corona had remained horrorstruck, believing that some awful and incomprehensible calamity had befallen her husband and had destroyed his reason.  The moment he produced the proof of what he said, her presence of mind returned, and she saw at a glance the true horror of the situation.  She never doubted for a moment that she was the victim of some atrocious plot, but having something to face which she could understand her great natural courage asserted itself.  She was not a woman to moan and weep helplessly when there was an open danger to be met.

She took the letter and the pin and examined them by the light, with a calmness that contrasted oddly with her previous conduct.  Giovanni watched her.  He supposed that she had acted surprise until he had brought forward something more conclusive than words, and that she was now exercising her ingenuity in order to explain the situation.  His lip curled scornfully, as he fancied he saw the meaning of her actions.  After a few seconds she looked up and held out the two objects towards him.

“The paper is mine,” she said, “but I did not write the letter.  The pin is mine too.  I lost it more than a month ago.”

“Of course,” replied Giovanni, coldly.  “I expected that you would say that.  It is very natural.  But I do not ask you for any explanations.  I have them already.  I will take you to Saracinesca to-morrow morning and you will have time to explain everything.  You will have your whole life to use, until you die, for no other object.  I told you I would not kill you.”

“Is it possible that you are in earnest?” asked Corona, her voice trembling slightly.

“I am in earnest.  Do you think I am a man to jest over such deeds?”

“And do you think I am a woman to do such deeds?”

“Since you have done them—­what answer can there be?  Not only are you capable of them.  You are the woman who has done them.  Do lifeless things, like these, lie?”

“No.  But men do.  I believe you, Giovanni.  You found these things in Monsieur Gouache’s rooms.  You were told I put them there.  Whoever told you so uttered the most infamous falsehood that ever was spoken on earth.  The person who placed them where they were did so in the hope of ruining me.  Can you look back into the past and tell me that you have any other reason for believing in this foul plot?”

“Reasons?” cried Giovanni, fiercely.  “Do you want more reasons?  We have time.  I will give you enough to satisfy you that I know all you have done.  Was not this man for ever near you last year, wherever you met, talking with you in low tones, showing by every movement and gesture that he distinguished you with his base love?  Were you not together in a corner last Tuesday night just as the insurrection broke out?  Did he not kiss your hand when you both thought no one was looking?”