"Clever, Jim," he said with a cynical laugh. "I take off my hat to you. I never would have thought you had it in you. But you'll admit that living in my wife's apartment and impersonating her husband is going a bit too far."
The laughter didn't serve to conceal either his fear or his fury. But it stopped short as Jim's fingers suddenly closed over his wrist and held it in a grip of iron.
"Don't bring her into this," he whispered tensely. "Do you hear?" And after a moment of struggle with himself as he withdrew his hand, "You dared to think yourself worthy of her. You!"
"Be careful what you say to me," said Harry, trying bravado. "She's my wife."
"She won't be your wife long, when I tell her what I know about you," finished Jim angrily.
He saw Harry's face go pale again as he tried to meet his gaze, saw the fire flicker out of him, as he groped pitiably for Jim's hand.
"Jim! You—you wouldn't do that?" he muttered.
Jim released his hand, shrugged and leaned back in his chair.
"Not if you play straight with me—and with her. You want me to pay the penalty of what I did for you—to go out into the world—an outcast in your place. Perhaps I owe it to you. I don't know. But you owe me something too—promotion—the Croix de Guerre——"
"The Croix de Guerre! Me——?"