"Something of what followed, you know," he went on quietly. "I tried to tell them the truth in the hospital. I said I wasn't Harry Horton. They didn't believe me. They thought I was still out of my head. And so I lay there for a while, silent. I think I must have been pretty weak."
He paused a moment to gather his thoughts.
"There were some letters to Harry. I had no right to read them. But I did. A letter from you to him—about your marriage—showing what a farce it was. A letter from Barry Quinlevin——" He paused and frowned. "It was an invasion of your privacy—and his—but you were nothing to me—then. I was sure that I would never meet you. I thought that I would wait a few days before I tried to tell the officers of the hospital who I was. It was a hard thing to do—because it meant that I would have to pay the penalty of a military crime."
"But sure, after what you'd done," Moira's voice broke in clearly, "they couldn't be punishing you——"
"Disgraceful imprisonment—and for Harry—the penalty of desertion in the face of the enemy. You see there were two of us to consider."
"Yes, I understand."
"Then you came—suddenly—without warning." His voice sank to a deep murmur and he bent his head. "It was a moment for a decision. I hadn't it. I was weak. I let you believe that I was your husband. It—it seemed the easiest way just then. God knows I meant you no harm. And God knows I've suffered for it."
He rose and leaned upon the mantel, his face turned away from her, summoning courage for the harder thing that he still had to say. "And there's something else, that made me do what I did——" he began.
"Something more?" he heard her question. "What do you mean?"
He paused a moment.