“The letter.”
The answer was in a shaken voice.
“I would give my right hand never to have written it!”
Fun once more gleamed in Hugh’s eyes.
“Poor old Dick! Odd, wasn’t it? I couldn’t help laughing to find you’d been so bowled over!”
His voice was little more than a slow whisper, broken by pauses, sometimes sinking so low as to be almost inaudible. Wareham felt that the time had come for him to speak.
“Don’t try to say anything, but just listen. On my honour, the thing was on me before I knew where I was, and, while I flattered myself—like a fool—that I detested her for the way she treated you, I never thought that all the time she was slipping into my very heart. At last, one day, I saw myself and her. Hugh, that very day I wrote that letter. And, look here—though I said just now that I would have given my right hand not to have written it, I don’t know how I could be facing you now if I hadn’t.” He reined himself back into slow speech. “I never spoke a word to her. The secret rests between you and me. She hasn’t an idea. Get well, Hugh, and God knows whether I will not stand aside and be thankful that you have her!”
Silence, and the ticking of the clock. The nurse looked in at the door, but retreated at a sign from Wareham. Hugh said at last—
“I urged you to stay.”
“And now you know why I refused?”