“Oh, I don’t know!” she said, shaking her head in mental anguish. “I only know that he’s Harry—and that we’re disowning him——”
“But he does not know that he is Harry Tremaine—he’s quite content to be Durham!”
“And if he wakes up again and remembers?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Wait till it happens. We can only deal with the actual situation. At the present time he’s quite happily Durham!—Now, dear,” he smiled affection, “trust me! Leave it all to me—just keep quiet!” He kissed her on the brow. “It will all work out.”
She turned away, shuddering.
“He was my husband,” she said, drearily.
“He was!—And your husband was killed in action on October 10th, 1918. The man in the drawing-room is a complete stranger by the name of Durham.—Now, let us go in to him.”
She resigned herself, with one last protest.