It was undoubtedly Eddie, his partner, but he had never seen him so white and—why, he had a hole over his eye! Eddie Lukens was dead; it wasn't decent for him to be standing up, flapping his hands and singing. Jason bent forward to remonstrate, to persuade him to go back—back to where the dead belonged. Then he remembered, but it was too late: Eddie had him in an iron clutch, he was dragging him, too, down.
Jason made a convulsive effort to escape, he threw back his head, gasping; and saw Honora, his wife, bending over him. The tormenting illusion slowly perished—this was Cottarsport and not California, he was back again in the East, the present, married to Honora Canderay. An astounding fact, but so. Through the window of his room he could see the foliage of a great horse-chestnut tree that stood by the side walk; it was swelling into flower. Full memory now flooded back upon him, and with it the realization that probably his happiness was destroyed.
It was impossible to tell how much Honora knew of the cause of the assault upon him. She was always like that—enigmatic. But, whatever she knew now, soon she would have to hear all. Even if he wished to lie, it would be impossible to fabricate, maintain, a convincing cover for what had happened. The most superficial, necessary investigation would expose the story brought home by Thomas Gast.
The time had come when he must confide everything to Honora; perhaps she would overlook his cowardice. About to address her, he fell into a bottomless coma, and a day passed before he had gathered himself sufficiently to undertake his task. She was sitting facing him, her chair by a window, where her fingers were swiftly and smoothly occupied. Her features were a little blurred against the light, and—her disconcerting scrutiny veiled—he felt this to be an assistance.
“Those men who broke me up,” he began dis-jointedly, surprised at the thin uncertainty of his voice, “I know pretty well who they are. Ought to get most of them.”
“We thought you could say,” she rejoined in an even tone. “Some guesses were made, but it was better to wait till you could give a statement.”
“Am I badly hurt, Honora?” he asked suddenly. “Not dangerously,” she assured him. “You have splendid powers of recuperation.”
“I'll have to go on,” he added hurriedly, “and tell you the rest—why I was beaten.”
“It would be better not,” she stated. “You ought to be as calm as possible. It may quiet you, Jason, to hear that I know now.”
“You know what the town has been saying,” he cried in bitter revolt, “what lies Thomas Gast spread. You've heard all the envy and malice and drunken vileness of sots. It isn't right for you to think you know before I could speak a word of defense.”