“I came here on purpose to talk to you about another matter. . . .  Shall we step inside?  Or”—­he glanced sharply around, lantern held above his head—­“I guess we’re better off out here.”

Berkley silently assented.  The doctor considered the matter in mind for a while, nursing his knees, then looking directly at Berkley: 

“Phil, you once told roe a deliberate falsehood.”

Berkley’s face flushed scarlet, and he stiffened in every muscle.

The doctor said:  “I merely wanted you to understand that I knew it to be a falsehood when you uttered it.  I penetrated your motive in telling it, let it go at that, and kept both eyes open—­and waited.”

Berkley never moved.  The painful colour stained the scar on his brow to an ugly purple.

“The consequences of which falsehood,” continued the doctor, “culminated in my asking Miss Lynden to marry me. . . .  I’ve been thinking—­wondering—­whether that lie was justifiable.  And I’ve given up the problem.  But I respect your motive in telling it.  It’s a matter for you to settle privately with yourself and your Maker.  I’m no Jesuit by nature; but—­well—­you’ve played a man’s part in the life of a young and friendless girl who has become to me the embodiment of all I care for in woman.  And I thank you for that.  I thank you for giving her the only thing she lacked—­a chance in the world.  Perhaps there were other ways of doing it.  I don’t know.  All I know is that I thank you for giving her the chance.”

He ceased abruptly, folded Ins arms, and gazed musingly into space.  Then: 

“Phil, have you ever injured a man named Eugene Hallam, Captain of your troop in the 8th Lancers?”

Berkley looked up, startled; and the hot colour began to fade.

“What do you know about Captain Hallam?” he asked.

“Where is he?”

“Probably a prisoner.  He was taken at the cavalry affair which they now call Yellow Run.”

“You saw him taken by the enemy?”

“No.  I saw him—­surrender—­or rather, ride toward the enemy, apparently with that design in mind.”

“Why don’t you say that Hallam played the coward—­that he deserted his men under fire—­was even shot at by his own colonel?”

“You seem to know about it,” said Berkley in a mortified voice. . . .  “No man is anxious to reflect on his own regiment.  That is why I did not mention it.”

“Yes, I knew it.  Your servant, the trooper Burgess, came to Paigecourt in search of you.  I heard the detestable details from him.  He was one of the detachment that got penned in; he saw the entire performance.”

“I didn’t know Burgess was there,” said Berkley.  “Is he all right?”

“Wears his left wrist in a sling; Colles’s fracture; horse fell.  He’s a villainous-looking party; I wouldn’t trust that fellow with a pewter button.  But he seems devoted to you.”

“I’ve never been able to make him out,” said Berkley, smiling.