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 name, and to him in mine--poor mamma often does eccentric things, to get her own way--and it made complications, Michael was very much annoyed. So we settled always to sign important telegrams 'Veritas,' which means: 'This is really from me.'" "Then--your husband--is coming home to you?" said Jim Airth, slowly. "Yes, Jim," the sweet voice faltered, for the first time, and grew tremulous. "Michael is coming home." Then Jim Airth turned round, and faced her squarely. Myra had never seen anything so terrible as his face. "You are mine," he said; "not his." Myra looked up at him, in dumb sorrowful appeal. She closed the ivory fan, clasping her hands upon it. The unquestioning finality of her patient silence, goaded Jim Airth to madness, and let loose the torrent of his fierce wild protest against this inevitable--this unrelenting, fate.