of flame.

For a long moment she stood silently regarding the ring of startled
faces turned towards her. Then at last she spoke.

"I have something to tell you," she said, addressing herself primarily,
it seemed, to Miles.

Perhaps she recognized the compassionate spirit of understanding which
was his in so great a measure and appealed to it unconsciously. Selwyn,
with sensitive perception, turned as though to leave the room, but she
stopped him.

"No, don't go," she said quickly. "Please stay--all of you. I--I wish
you all to hear what I have to say." She spoke very composedly, with a
curious submissive dignity, as though she had schooled herself to meet
this moment. "It concerns Garth Trent--at least, that is the name by
which you know him. His real name is Maurice--Maurice Kennedy, and he
is my cousin, Lord Grisdale's younger son. He has lived here under
an assumed name because--because"--her voice trembled a little, then
steadied again to its accustomed even quality--"because I ruined his
life. . . . The only way in which I can make amends is by telling you
the true facts of the Indian Frontier episode which led to Maurice's
dismissal from the Army. He--ought never to have been--cashiered for
cowardice."

She paused, and with a sudden instinctive movement Sara grasped Selwyn's
arm, while the sharp sibilance of her quick-drawn breath cut across the
momentary silence.

"No," Elisabeth repeated. "Maurice ought never to have been cashiered.
He was absolutely innocent of the charge against him. The real offender
was Geoffrey . . . my husband. It was he--Geoffrey, not Maurice--who was
sent out in charge of the reconnaissance party from the fort--and it was
he whose nerve gave way when surprised by the enemy. Maurice kept his
head and tried to steady him, but, at the time, Geoffrey must have been
mad--caught by sudden panic, together with his men. Don't judge him too
hardly"--her voice took on a note of pleading--"you must remember that
he had been enduring days and nights of frightful strain, and that the
attack came without any warning . . . in the darkness. He had no time to
think--to pull himself together. And he lost his head. . . . Maurice did
his best to save the situation. Realizing that for the moment Geoffrey
was hardly accountable, he deliberately shot him in the leg, to
incapacitate him, and took command himself, trying to rally the men.
But they stampeded past him, panic-stricken, and it was while he wa