"Better—lots better," he answered; "you see, I can really think——"
"I wouldn't try to do that—not yet."
"Oh, I'm all right." And the nurse was ready for the first time to believe that her patient was to remain this side of the border line of the dim realm into which she had seen so many go, for his eyes were clear and he spoke with definite assurance. But the question that he asked made her dubious again.
"I say, nurse, would you mind telling me what my name is?"
She gazed at him a moment as though a little disappointed and then replied quietly: "Lieutenant Henry G. Horton, of the —th Infantry."
"Oh," said the patient, "I see."
"I think you'd better sleep a while, then I want the Major to see you."
"Oh, don't bother; I'm coming through all right, now. I'm sure of it. But I want to tell you——"
The nurse silenced him gently, then felt his pulse and after another glance at him moved to the next bed. It had been a wonderful operation, but then they couldn't expect the impossible.
Jim Horton closed his eyes, but he didn't sleep. With the shadow of death still hovering over him, he was trying to think charitably of Harry, of the man who had worked such havoc in the lives of those nearest him. The five years that had passed since the death of their mother—poor, tired soul who until the end believed the whole thing a mistake—could not have been fruitful in anything but evil in the life of the reprobate twin-brother who had robbed the family of what had been left of the estate and then fled away from the small town where they lived to the gay lights of New York. And now here he was—an officer of the United States Army where commissions do not come without merit. What did it mean? Harry was always clever enough, too clever by half. Had he quit drinking? Was he living straight? There seemed but one answer to these questions, or he could not have held his job in the army. His job! His commission wouldn't last long if his commanding officer knew what Jim Horton did.