He obeyed her, his face so white and set that he looked years older, like a stranger who had accidentally come in upon this, the most vital moment of her life.
Martin turned at sound of her words, with a sigh that was almost a groan. Jerry came across the long studio to them, looking at Jane. He stopped, facing her, still gazing at her.
"I have just told Jane that I love her," Martin said presently. Jerry nodded. "I think you ought to know."
"I have known it for some time," Jerry replied.
Martin shook his head.
"You could not have known it. I have only admitted it to myself in the last few days—since my freedom came."
"Your wife is dead?" Jerry asked quietly.
"Yes."
"What do you want me to do, Jane?" Jerry said.
"I want you to believe what Martin said—that he never knew he cared until now—that this hour brought the first word of sentiment between us. That it was an accident—an explosion. You do believe that, Jerry?"