"The newspapers, the War Office, even the return of his effects."
"From where?" Wrayson asked.
"From South Africa. He was shot through the lungs in Natal!"
"Men have turned up before, after having been reported dead," he remarked sententiously.
"But he was in the army," she replied. "Don't you see that if he was alive now, he would be a deserter. He has never rejoined. He was certified as having died in the hospital at Ladysmith!"
Wrayson looked steadily into her agitated face.
"Supposing," he said, "that he turned out to be the man whom you have in your mind, what is he to you?"
"My brother," she answered simply.
Wrayson's first impulse was of surprise. Then he drew a long breath of relief. He looked back upon his long hours of anxiety, and cursed himself for a fool.
"What an idiot I have been!" he declared. "Of course, I know that you lost a brother in South Africa. But—but what about Madame de Melbain?"