so great and clever--he really thinks trivial and unimportant
things are a woman's vocation in life. But oh, Jim--Jim Airth--with _you_
I am always lifted straight to the big things; and our big thing to-day
is this:--that you never killed Michael. Do you remember telling me how,
as you lay in your tent recovering from the fever, if some one could have
come in and told you Michael was alive and well, and that you had not
killed him after all, you would have given your life for the relief of
that moment? Well, _I_ am that 'some one,' and _this_ is the 'moment';
and when first I had the telegram I could think of nothing--absolutely
nothing, Jim--but what it would be to you."

"What telegram?" gasped Jim Airth. "In heaven's name, Myra, what do you
mean?"

"Michael's telegram. It lies on the mantelpiece. Read it, Jim."

Jim Airth turned, took up the telegram and drew it from the envelope with
steady fingers. He still thought Myra was raving.

He read it through, slowly. The wording was unmistakable; but he read it
through again. As he did so he slightly turned, so that his back was
toward the couch.

The blow was so stupendous. He could only realise one thing, for the
moment:--that the woman who watched him read it, must not as yet see his
face.

She spoke.

"Is it not almost impossible to believe, Jim? Ronald and Billy were
lunching here, when it came. Billy seemed stunned; but Ronnie was
delighted. He said he had always believed the first men to rush in had
been captured, and that no actual proofs of Michael's death had ever been
found. They never explained to me before, that there had been no funeral.
I suppose they thought it would seem more horrible. But I never take much
account of bodies. If it weren't for the burden of having a weird little
urn about, and wondering what to do with it, I should approve of
cremation. I sometimes felt I ought to make a pilgrimage to see the
grave. I knew Michael would have wished it. He sets much store by
graves--all the Inglebys lie in family vaults. That makes it worse about
Peter. Ronnie went up to town at once to telegraph out the money. Billy
went with him. Do you think five hundred is enough? Jim?--Jim! Are you
not thankful? Do say something, Jim."

Jim Airth put back the telegram upon the mantelpiece. His big hand
shook.

"What is 'Veritas'?" he asked, without looking round.

"That is our private code, Jim; Michael's and mine. My mother once wired
to me in Michael's