Jim Horton awoke in high fever and great pain but the operation upon his skull had been successful and it was believed that he would recover. Something as to the facts of the exploit of the wounded man had come to the hospital and he was an object of especial solicitude by both surgeons and nurses. They had worked hard to save him that he might be alive for the decoration that was sure to come and the night had brought a distinct improvement in his condition. The nurse still watched his breathing eagerly and wrote down the new and favorable record upon the chart by his bedside. Miss Newberry was not in the least sentimental and the war had blunted her sensibilities, but there was no denying the fact that when the dressing was removed from his head the patient was extremely good to look at. He rewarded her on the morrow with a smile.

"How long have I been here?" he murmured hazily.

"Six days," she replied; "but you mustn't talk."

"Six – ? Wounded – "

"Sh – . In the head, shoulder and leg, but you're doing nicely."

"Won't you tell me – ?" he began.

But she soothed him gently. "Not now – later perhaps. You must sleep again. Drink this – please."

Horton obeyed, for he found himself too weak to oppose her. It was very restful here; he wriggled his toes luxuriously against the soft sheets for a moment. If things would only stop whirling around… And the pain … but that seemed to cease again and he slept. Indeed his awakening was only to half-consciousness. Other days and nights followed when he lay in a sort of doze, aware of much suffering and a great confusion of thought. But slowly, as he grew stronger, the facts of his present position emerged from the dimness and with them a mild curiosity, scarcely lucid as yet, as to how he had gotten there. At last there came a morning when the fog upon his memory seemed to roll aside and he began to recall one by one the incidents that had preceded his unconsciousness.

There had been a fight. Some fight that was. Huns all over the place – in a ring around the rocks, up in the branches of the trees – everywhere. But he had held on until the Boches had started to run when the American line advanced. He remembered that the Engineers could do other things besides build saps and bridges. Good old Engineers! Something was wrong – somewhere.

Out of his clouded brain, slowly, the facts came to him – things that had happened before the fight – just before. Harry – his twin brother Harry, lying in the ditch just behind Jim's squad of Engineers, a coward, in a blue funk – afraid to carry out his Major's orders to go forward and investigate. A coward, of course! Harry would be. He had always been a coward.

Jim Horton sighed, his mind, ambling weakly into vacancy, suddenly arrested by a query.

What else?– What else had happened? Something to do with the remarkable likeness between himself and Harry? The likeness, – so strong that only their own mother had been able to tell them apart.

Memory came to him with a rush. He remembered now what had happened in the darkness, what he had done. Taken Harry's lieutenant's uniform, giving the coward his own corporal's outfit. Then he, Jim Horton, had gone on and carried out the Major's orders, leaving the coward writhing in the ditch.

By George! – the fight – he, Jim Horton, had won the victory at Boissière Wood for the – th Infantry —for Harry! – as Harry!

Perhaps, he was really Harry and not Jim Horton at all? He glanced around him curiously, as though somewhat amused at the metempyschosis. And then thoughtfully shook his head.

No. He was Jim Horton, all right – Jim Horton. There was no mistake about that.

But Harry! Imagine meeting Harry in a situation like that after all these years! A coward! Not that that was a very surprising thing. Harry had always been a quitter. There was nothing that Harry could do or be that wasn't utterly despicable in the eyes of his brother Jim, and after having spent the best part of five years trying to live the memory of Harry down —

The nurse appeared silently and looked into Jim Horton's eyes. He closed them a moment and then smiled at her.

"How do you feel?" she asked.

"Better – lots better," he answered; "you see, I can really think – "

"I wouldn't try to do that – not yet."

"Oh, I'm all right." And the nurse was ready for the first time to believe that her patient was to remain this side of the border line of the dim realm into which she had seen so many go, for his eyes were clear and he spoke with definite assurance. But the question that he asked made her dubious again.

"I say, nurse, would you mind telling me what my name is?"

She gazed at him a moment as though a little disappointed and then replied quietly: "Lieutenant Henry G. Horton, of the – th Infantry."

"Oh," said the patient, "I see."

"I think you'd better sleep a while, then I want the Major to see you."

"Oh, don't bother; I'm coming through all right, now. I'm sure of it. But I want to tell you – "

The nurse silenced him gently, then felt his pulse and after another glance at him moved to the next bed. It had been a wonderful operation, but then they couldn't expect the impossible.

Jim Horton closed his eyes, but he didn't sleep. With the shadow of death still hovering over him, he was trying to think charitably of Harry, of the man who had worked such havoc in the lives of those nearest him. The five years that had passed since the death of their mother – poor, tired soul who until the end believed the whole thing a mistake – could not have been fruitful in anything but evil in the life of the reprobate twin-brother who had robbed the family of what had been left of the estate and then fled away from the small town where they lived to the gay lights of New York. And now here he was – an officer of the United States Army where commissions do not come without merit. What did it mean? Harry was always clever enough, too clever by half. Had he quit drinking? Was he living straight? There seemed but one answer to these questions, or he could not have held his job in the army. His job! His commission wouldn't last long if his commanding officer knew what Jim Horton did.

They all thought that the patient in the hospital bed was Harry Horton, a Lieutenant of the – th Infantry, The corporal had won the lieutenant some glory, it seemed, instead of the ruin that awaited the discovery of the cowardice and disobedience of orders. But the substitution would be discovered unless Jim Horton could find his brother Harry. And how was he going to manage that from his hospital bed?

A gentle perspiration exuded from Jim Horton's pores. Being surrounded by Boches in the wood was distinctly less hazardous than this. And so when the nurse returned with the Major, he did his best to straighten out the tangle. The Major was much pleased at the patient's progress, made a suggestion or two about a change in the treatment and was on the point of turning away when Horton spoke.

"Would you mind, sir – just a word?"

"Of course. Something bothering you?"

"Yes. You see – " the patient hesitated again, his lip twisting, "this whole thing is a mistake."

The doctor eyed the sick man narrowly.

"A mistake?" And then kindly, "I don't understand."

Horton frowned at the bed-rail. "You see, sir, I'm not Henry G. Horton. I – I'm somebody else."

He saw the nurse and the doctor exchange glances,

"Ah, well," said the medical man with a smile, "I wouldn't bother about it."

"But I do bother about it, sir. I've got to tell you. I'm another man. I changed uniforms with – with another fellow in the dark," he finished uneasily.

The same look passed between nurse and surgeon and then he saw Miss Newberry's head move slightly from left to right. The doctor rose.

"Oh, very well. Don't let it bother you, my man. We'll get you all untangled presently. Just try not to think; you're doing nicely."

And the Major moved slowly down the ward.

Jim Horton frowned at the medical officer's broad back.

"Thinks I'm nutty," he muttered to himself, and then grinned. The story was a little wild.

When the Major had left the ward, the nurse came back and smoothed Horton's pillow. "You're to be very quiet," she said gently, "and sleep all you can."

"But, nurse," he protested, "I don't want to sleep any more. I told him the truth. I've taken another man's place."

"You did it very well, from all accounts," she said with a smile; "and you'll take another man's before long, they say."

"What do you mean?"

"Promotion," she laughed; "but you won't get it if you have a relapse."

"I'm not going to have a relapse. I'm all right. Better every day, and I'd like you to understand that I know exactly what I'm saying. I took another man's job. He was – was sick and I took his place. I'm not Lieutenant Horton, nurse."

"You may be whatever you please, if you'll only go to sleep."

"Bless your heart! That isn't going to change my identity."

His positiveness rather startled her and made her pause and stare at him soberly. But in a moment her lips curved into a smile, rather tender and sympathetic. It wouldn't do to let this illusion grow, so gently she said: "Your authenticity is well vouched for. The report of your company Captain – the Sergeant-Major of your battalion. You see, you've become rather a famous person in the – th. I've seen some of your papers, they're all quite regular. Even your identification disk. It's here in the drawer with some other things that were in your pockets, so please relax and sleep again, won't you? I mustn't talk to you. It's contrary to orders."

"But nurse – "

She patted him gently on the arm, put a warning finger to her lips, and silently stole away. His gaze followed her the length of the room until she disappeared through the door when he sank back on his pillows with a groan.

"Nutty!" he muttered to himself; "wonder if I am." He touched the bandage and realized that his head was beginning to throb again. "No, I'm Jim Horton all right, there's no doubt about that, but how I'm going to make these seraphic idiots believe it is more than I can see. That Sergeant! And the men… By George! And the Sergeant-Major. Probably looked me over at the dressing station. Oh, Lord, what a mess!"

Things began whirling around and Jim Horton closed his eyes; he wasn't quite as strong as he thought he was, and after a while he slept again.

Downstairs in the Major's office two surgeons and the nurse in charge were discussing the case.

"Queer obsession that. Thinks he's another man. There may be some pressure there yet. It ought to have cleared up by this."

"It's shock, sir, I think. He'll come out of it. He's coming on, Miss Newberry?"

"Splendidly. That's what I can't understand. He looks as though he knew what he was saying."

"Any chance of there being a mistake?"

"None at all, sir. Doctor Rawson came down with him in the ambulance, his own company captain was there when the patient was given first aid. He would have known his own lieutenant, sir. There can't be any mistake, but he has scarcely any fever – "

"Never mind, keep an extra eye on him. The wound is healing nicely. He'll come through all right."

So Nurse Newberry returned to the ward, somewhat gratified to find her charge again peacefully asleep.

The next day the patient did not revert to his obsession, but lay very quiet looking out of the window. His failure to reveal his secret left him moody and thoughtful. But his temperature was normal and he was without pain.

"You say there were some things in the pockets of – of my blouse," he asked of the nurse.

"Yes, would you like to have them?" The patient nodded and she gave them to him, the identification disk, a wrist watch, some money, a note-book and some papers. He looked them over in an abstracted way, sinking back on his pillow at last, holding the letters in his hand. Then at last as though coming to a difficult decision, he took one of the letters out of its envelope and began reading.

It was in a feminine hand and added more heavily to the burden of his responsibilities.

"Dear Harry" (it ran):

"I'm just back to my room, a wife of three hours with a honeymoon in a railway station! It all seems such a mistake – without even an old shoe to bless myself with. If I've helped you I'm glad of it. But I'm not going to lie just to square us two with the Almighty for the mockery I've been through. I don't love you, Harry, and you know that. I did what Dad asked me to do and I'd do it again if he asked me.

"He seems restless to-night, and talks about going back to Paris. I suppose I could do something over there for I've lost all impulse for my work. Perhaps we'll come and then you could run up and see us. I'll try to be nice to you, Harry, I will really. You know there's always been something lacking in me. I seem to have given everything to my painting, so there's very little left for you, which is the Irish in me saying I'm a heartless hussy.

"Soon I'll be sending you the pair of gray socks which I knitted with my own hands. They're bunchy in spots and there's a knot or two here and there, but I hope you can wear them – for the Deil's own time I had making them. Good-night. I suppose that I should be feeling proud at my sacrifice; I don't, somehow, but I'll be feeling glad if you have another bar to your shoulder. That might make me proud, knowing that I'd helped.

MOIRA."

"P. S. Don't be getting killed or anything; I never wanted to marry anybody but I don't want you done away with. Besides, I've a horror of crêpe.

M."

Jim Horton read the letter through furtively with a growing sense of intrusion. It was like listening at a confessional or peering through a keyhole. And somehow its ingenuous frankness aroused his interest. Harry had been married to this girl who didn't love him and she had consented because her father had wanted her to. He felt unaccountably indignant on her account against Harry and the father. Pretty name – Moira! Like something out of a book. She seemed to breathe both youth and hope tinged horribly with regret. He liked her handwriting which had dashed into her thoughts impulsively, and he also liked the slight scent of sachet which still clung to the paper. He liked the girl better, pitied her the more, because her instinct had been so unerring. If she had thrown herself away she had done it with her eyes wide open. A girl who could make such a sacrifice from lofty motives, would hardly condone the thing that Harry had been guilty of. A coward…

There was another letter, of a much later date, in a masculine hand. Jim Horton hesitated for a moment! and then took it out of its envelope.

"Harry boy," he read, "so far as I can see at this writing the whole thing has gone to the demnition bow-wows. Suddenly, without a by-your-leave, the money stopped coming. I wrote de V. and cabled, but the devil of a reply did he give. So I'm coming to Paris with Moira at once and it looks as though we'd have to put the screws on. But I'd be feeling better if the papers were all ship-shape and Bristol fashion. You'll have to help. Maybe the uniform will turn the odd trick. If it don't we'll find some way.

"I feel guilty as Hell about Moira. If you ever make her unhappy I'll have the blood of your heart. But I'm hoping that the love will come if you play the game straight with her.

"Meanwhile we'll feather the nest if we can. He's got to 'come across.' There's some agency working against us – and I've got to be on the scene to ferret —instanter. Moira got some portraits to do or we wouldn't have had the wherewithal for the passage. As it is, I'll be having to make the move with considerable skill, leaving some obligations behind. But it can't be helped, and Moira won't know. The world is but a poor place for the man who doesn't make it give him a living. Mine has been wretched enough, God knows, and the whisky one buys over the bar in New York is an insult to an Irishman's intelligence, to say nothing of being a plague upon his vitals.

"Enough of this. Come to the Rue de Tavennes, No. 7, in your next furlough, and we'll make a move. By that time I'll have a plan. Moira sends her love.

"Yours very faithfully,

"BARRY QUINLEVIN.

P. S. There was a pretty squall brewing over the Stamford affair, but I reefed sail and weathered it. So you can sleep in peace.

B. Q."

Jim Horton lay for a while thinking and then read the two letters again. The masculine correspondent was the girl's father. Barry Quinlevin, it seemed, was a scoundrel of sorts – and the girl adored him. Many of the passages in the letter were mystifying. Who was de V – ? And what was Harry's connection with this affair? It was none of Jim Horton's business, but in spite of himself he began feeling an intense sympathy for the girl Moira, who was wrapped in the coils of what seemed on its face to be an ugly intrigue, if it wasn't something worse.

Strange name, Quinlevin. It was Moira's name too, Irish. The phrase about having Harry's heart's blood showed that Barry Quinlevin wasn't beyond compunctions about the girl. But why had he connived at this loveless marriage? There must have been a reason for that.

Jim Morton put the letters in the drawer and gave the problem up. It wasn't his business whom Harry had married or why. The main thing was to get well and out of the hospital so that he could find his brother and set the tangle straight.

He couldn't imagine just how the substitution was to be accomplished, but if Harry had played the game there was a chance that it might yet be done. He didn't want Harry's job. And he silently cursed himself for the unfortunate impetuous moment that had brought about all the trouble. But how had he known that he was going to be hit? If he had only succeeded in getting back to the spot where Harry was waiting for him, no one would ever have been the wiser. No one knew now, but of course the masquerade couldn't last forever. The situation was impossible.

Meanwhile what was Harry doing? Had he succeeded in playing out the game during Jim Horton's sickness, or had he found himself in a tight place and quit? It would have been easy enough. Horton shivered slightly. Desertion, flight, ignominy, disgrace. And it wasn't Harry Horton's good name that would be in question, but his own, that of Jim Horton, Corporal of Engineers. As a name, it didn't stand for much yet, even out in Kansas City, but he had never done anything to dishonor it and he didn't want the few friends he had to think of him as a quitter. Nobody had ever accused him of being that. What a fool he had been to take such a chance for a man like Harry!

In the midst of these troublesome meditations, he was aware of Nurse Newberry approaching from the end of the ward. Following her were two people who stopped at his bed, a man and a girl. The man was strong, with grizzled hair, a bobbed Imperial and a waxed mustache. The girl had black hair and slate-blue eyes. And even as Jim Horton stared at them, he was aware of the man confidently approaching and taking his hand.

"Well, Harry, don't you know me?" a voice said. "Rather hazy, eh? I don't wonder…"

Who the devil were these people? There must be a mistake. Jim Horton mumbled something. The visitor's eyes were very dark brown shot with tiny streaks of yellow and he looked like an amiable satyr.

"I've brought Moira – thought ye'd like to see her."

The patient started – then recovered himself. He had forgotten the lapse of time since the letters had been written.

"Moira," he muttered.

The girl advanced slowly as the man made place. Her expression had been serious, but as she came forward she smiled softly.

"Harry," she was whispering, as he stared at her loveliness, "don't you know me?"

"Moira!" he muttered weakly. "I'm not – " But his hands made no movement toward her and a warm flush spread over the part of his face that was visible.

"You've been very sick, Harry. But we came as soon as they'd let us. And you're going to get well, thank the Holy Virgin, and then – "

"I'm not – " the words stuck in Jim Horton's throat. And he couldn't utter them.

"You're not what?" she questioned anxiously.

Another pause of uncertainty.

"I – I'm not – very strong yet," he muttered weakly, turning his head to one side.

And as he said it, he knew that in sheer weakness of fiber, spiritual as well as physical, he had made a decision.

The Satyr behind her laughed softly.

"Naturally," he said, "but ye're going to be well very soon."

They were both looking at him and something seemed to be required of him. So with an effort,

"How long – how long have you been in France?" he asked.

"Only three weeks," said Quinlevin, "watching the bulletins daily for news of you. I found out a week ago, but they wouldn't let us in until to-day. And we can stay only five minutes."

Then Moira spoke again, with a different note in her voice.

"Are you glad that I came?" she asked. "It was the least I could do."

"Glad!"

The word seemed sufficient. Jim Horton seemed glad to utter it. If she would only recognize the imposture and relieve him of the terrible moment of confession. But she didn't. She had accepted him as Quinlevin, as all the others had done, for his face value, without a sign of doubt.

And Barry Quinlevin stood beaming upon them both, his bright eyes snapping benevolence.

"If ye get the V.C., Harry boy, she'll sure be worshiping ye."

Jim Horton's gaze, fixed as though fascinated upon the quiet slate-blue eyes, saw them close for a moment in trouble, while a quick little frown puckered the white forehead. And when she spoke again, her voice uttered the truth that was in her heart.

"One cannot deny valor," she said coolly. "It is the greatest thing in the world."

She wanted no misunderstandings. She only wanted Harry Horton to know that love was not for her or for him. The fakir under the bed clothes understood. She preferred to speak of valor. Valor! If she only knew!

Jim Horton gathered courage. If he wasn't to tell the truth he would have to play his part.

"Everybody is brave – out there," he said, with a gesture.

"But not brave enough for mention," said Quinlevin genially. "It won't do, Harry boy. A hero ye were and a hero ye'll remain."

Horton felt the girl's calm gaze upon his face.

"I'm so glad you've made good, Harry. I am. And I want you to believe it."

"Thanks," he muttered.

Why did she gaze at him so steadily? It almost seemed as though she had read his secret. He hoped that she had. It would have simplified things enormously. But she turned away with a smile.

"You're to come to us, of course, as soon as they let you out," she said quietly.

"Well, rather," laughed Quinlevin.

The nurse had approached and the girl Moira had moved to the foot of the bed. Barry Quinlevin paused a moment, putting a slip of paper in Horton's hand.

"Well, au revoir, old lad. In a few days again – "

The wounded man's gaze followed the girl. She smiled back once at him and then followed the nurse down the ward. Jim Horton sank back into his pillows with a gasp.

"Well – now you've done it. Now you have gone and done it," he muttered.