"You—you are Harry Horton—my—my husband?" she whispered in a kind of daze.
"Well, rather."
She paused another long moment as though on the verge of a difficult decision and then spoke searchingly.
"If you are Harry—my husband—then who—who is the other?"
Harry Horton started. "The other——?"
"The other—who was here with me yesterday, who was ill in the hospital at Neuilly, wounded—the hero of Boissière wood?"
"Moira," he said, rising, "this is serious. There has been no other here."
"Yes," she repeated doggedly, "the other has been here—your twin——" The word seemed born of her necessity. "Your twin," she repeated.
He winced at the word and she saw the change in his expression.
"Tell me the truth of this thing," she went on quickly, "he said yesterday that something was to come between us. It was you." And then, as he made no reply, "For God's sake, speak——"