“I did not do what, dear?” he asked, gently, as if he were speaking to a little child whom he was anxious not to frighten.
“You did not kill Michael.”
“What makes you think I did not kill Michael, dear?” questioned Jim Airth, gently.
“Because,” said Myra, with clasped hands, “Michael is alive.”
“Dearest heart,” said Jim Airth, tenderly, “you are not well. These awful three weeks, and what went before, have been too much for you. The strain has upset you. I was a brute to go off and leave you. But you knew I did what I thought right at the time; didn’t you, Myra? Only now I see the whole thing quite differently. Your view was the true one. We ought to have acted upon it, and been married at once.”
“Oh, Jim,” said Myra, “thank God we didn’t! It would have been so terrible now. It must have been a case of ‘Even there shall Thy hand lead me, and Thy right hand shall hold me.’ In our unconscious ignorance, we might have gone away together, not knowing Michael was alive.”
Beads of perspiration stood on Jim Airth’s forehead.
“My darling, you are ill,” he said, in a voice of agonised anxiety. “I am afraid you are very ill. Do sit down quietly on the couch, and let me ring. I must speak to the O’Mara woman, or somebody. Why didn’t the fools let me know? Have you been ill all these weeks?”
Myra let him place her on the couch; smiling up at him reassuringly, as he stood before her.
“You must not ring the bell, Jim,” she said. “Maggie is at the Lodge; and Groatley would be so astonished. I am quite well.”