Before to-morrow.... I shall know more of God ... than the whole Bench of
Bishops."

There is silence. And she does not come. The man on the bed makes a
painful effort, gathering his nearly-spent forces for something he wants
to say:

"Doctor!"

"Let me wipe your forehead. Yes?"

"I ... insulted you frightfully the other day."

"You need not recall that. I have forgotten it."

"I ... beg your pardon! Will you ... shake hands?... My left, if you don't
mind. The other one's ... no good."

He tries to lift the heavy arm that lies beside him. There is only a faint
movement of the finger-tips, and he gives up the effort with a fluttering
sob. And the square white face with the burning eyes under the lowering
brows opposes itself to his. Words are crowding to Saxham's lips:

"_I would gladly shake the hand of the man who insulted me and who has
apologised. And I honour the brave officer who meets Death upon the field.
But with the would-be betrayer of an innocent girl, the dancing-woman's
husband who proposed himself as mate for Lynette Mildare, I have nothing
but contempt and abhorrence. He is to me a leper. Worse, for the leper I
would touch to cure!_"

He does not utter the words, nor does his rugged, unconquerable sincerity
admit of his taking the hand. He fights with his hatred in silence. And
she has not come. What is _he_ saying in that weak voice with the rattling
breaths between?

"Listen, Saxham.... There's ... something I want you ... say to Miss
Mildare."

The grey mists that gather about him shut out a clear view of Saxham's
terrible face. The feeble whisper struggles on, broken by those rattling
gasps.

"Tell her forget me. Say when I ... asked her ... to marry me...."

Silence. He is falling, falling into an abyss of vast uncertainties. The
blue lips dabbled with foam can frame no more coherent words. Only the
brain behind the dying eyes is alive to understand when Saxham approaches
his own livid face and blazing eyes to the face upon the pillow, and says:

"Do not try to speak. Close your eyes when you mean 'Yes.' I know what you
wish me to tell Miss Mildare. It is that when you asked her to marry you,
you were already the husband of another woman. Am I correct?"

The affirmative signal comes.

"You were married to Miss Lavigne at the Registrar's office,
Cookham-on-Thames, last June, before you sailed. The witnesses were your
valet and a female servant at Roselawn Cottage. And knowing that