"I want you to know every detail of it," he answered swiftly. "I want your advice—your help."
"My help?" There was a faint flush in her cheeks below the bandages. "What can I do?"
He paused a moment before replying, seeking the right beginning to his story.
"You remember at Nîmes telling me that your father had lost the last remnant of his fortune speculating in one of the Clifford Matheson companies?"
"Yes. And I was surprised to find how different you were to my conception of your brother."
"I am Clifford Matheson."
"I don't understand!" she gasped.
"I am Clifford Matheson. I took the name of John Rivière because ... well, the reason for that is one part of the story I have to tell you."
The pain, so evident in the drawn lines about her mouth, made him pause. It was the first stroke of the scalpel.
From outside the window came the care-free chirping of the birds making their Spring nests and telling the whole world of their happiness.