My memory went back to the narrative of the poor devil in the Cape Town hospital.  Boyce’s description of the general phenomenon was a deadly corroboration of Somers’s account of the individual case.  They had used the same word—­“paralysed.”  Boyce had made a fierce and definite apologia for the very act of which Somers had accused him.  He put it down to the sudden epilepsy of fear for which a man was irresponsible.  Somers’s story had never seemed so convincing—­ the first part of it, at least—­the part relating to the paralysis of terror.  But the second part—­the account of the diabolical ingenuity by means of which Boyce rehabilitated himself—­instead of blowing his brains out like a gentleman—­still hammered at the gates of my credulity.

Well—­granted the whole thing was true—­why revive it after fifteen years’ dead silence, and all of a sudden, just on account of an idle question?  Even in South Africa, his “mention” had proved his courage.  Now, with the D. S. O. a mere matter of gazetting, it was established beyond dispute.

On the other hand, if the Vilboek story, more especially the second part, was true, what reparation could he make in the eyes of honourable men?—­in his own eyes, if he himself had succeeded to the status of an honourable man?  Would not any decent soldier smite him across the face instead of grasping him by the hand?  I was profoundly worried.

Moreover Betty, level-headed Betty, had called him a devil.  Why?

If the second part of Somers’s story were true, he had acted like a devil.  There is no other word for it.  Now, what concrete diabolical facts did Betty know?  Or had her instinctive feminine insight pierced through the man’s outer charm and merely perceived horns, tail, and cloven hoof cast like a shadow over his soul?

How was I to know?

She came to dine with me the next evening:  a dear way she had of coming uninvited, and God knows how a lonely cripple valued it.  She was in uniform, being too busy to change, and looked remarkably pretty.  She brought with her a cheery letter from her husband, received that morning, and read me such bits as the profane might hear, her eyes brightening as she glanced over the sections that she skipped.  Beyond doubt her marriage had brought her pleasure and pride.  The pride she would have felt to some extent, I think, if she had married a grampus; for when a woman has a husband at the front she feels that she is taking her part in the campaign and exposing herself vicariously to hardship and shrapnel; and in the eyes of the world she gains thereby a little in stature, a thing dear to every right-minded woman.  But Betty’s husband was not a grampus, but a very fine fellow, a mate to be wholly proud of:  and he loved her devotedly and expressed his love beautifully loverwise, as her tell-tale face informed me.  Gratefully and sturdily she had set herself out to be happy.  She was succeeding. ...  Lord bless you!  Millions of women who have married, not the wretch they loved, but the other man, have lived happy ever after.  No:  I had no fear for Betty now.  I could not see that she had any fear for herself.