"I acknowledge the justice of that. I might have written--in the early days. But, for reasons which Esme alone could appreciate, I refrained from writing then. Later communication became impossible. I went to England and joined up. I didn't mean to join up. But if you'd been on the spot you'd understand the pressing urgency that impelled a man to go. I was among the first batch of prisoners taken by the Germans. It's a long story anyhow. I'll tell it to her. She will understand." But that was exactly what Jim Bainbridge intended to dissuade him from doing. The moral rights of the case were too subtle for him to grasp; but he appreciated fully the insuperable difficulties of a readjustment under existing conditions. The lives of three people would be upset and the happiness of none secured. The only way to avoid further muddle was to allow the present muddle to go on. That was how he saw it; and he hoped to persuade Hallam into taking his view. "Do many people know of your return?" he asked. Hallam looked surprised. "Only Huntley and yourself." "In your place, I should clear out," Bainbridge advised. "Why not leave the country altogether, Paul? I'll keep my mouth shut." As the drift of his meaning dawned on him, Hallam's face hardened; the grey eyes shone steel-like. Jim Bainbridge, observing him closely, realised that the task he had set himself would prove no easy matter; but he braced himself to fight for the peace of mind of the woman whose happiness hung in the balance. "You know," he added, after a brief moment for reflection, "your long absence, your silence, amount pretty near to desertion. I don't know much about the blooming divorce laws in this country; but I fancy if we stretched our imaginations a bit we could make out a good case. Clear out, Paul. Make it a case of desertion proper. It's the only decent course to take. You don't want to injure Esme further. Leave her alone." "And condone a bigamy--in which my own wife is concerned! She _is_ my wife. I will agree to a divorce only if she wishes it." "Man, can't you see the unnecessary cruelty of letting her know you're alive? She's got used to thinking of you as dead. She's happy." Bainbridge leaned nearer to him and threw out a protesting hand. "It's hard on you. I admit it's hard on you--damned hard. But--hang it all!--you created the muddle. If it were only a matter of your claim against George's, I wouldn't offer advice; but it isn't. It's a case which would baffle Solomon himself. There's a kid--a baby girl. If I'm not mistaken, the baby's got a stronger claim than either of you two men. Some women are like that. Esme lives for the child."