It was in the moment of that thought that the look came into his face which brought the questioning little lines into her forehead again.  In that instant she caught a glimpse of the hunted man, of the soul that had traded itself, of desire beaten into helplessness by a thing she would never understand.  It was gone swiftly, but she had caught it.  And for her the scar just under his hair stood for its meaning.  The responsive throb in her breast was electric.  He felt it, saw it, sensed it to the depth of his soul, and his faith in himself stood challenged.  She believed.  And he—­was a liar.  Yet what a wonderful thing to lie for!

“—­He called me up over the telephone, and when I told him to be quiet, that you were still asleep, I think he must have sworn—­it sounded like it, but I couldn’t hear distinctly—­and then he fairly roared at me to wake you up and tell you that you didn’t half deserve such a lovely little sister as I am.  Wasn’t that nice, Derry?”

“You—­you’re talking about McDowell?”

“To be sure I am talking about Mr. McDowell!  And when I told him your injury troubled you more than usual, and that I was glad you were resting, I think I heard him swallow hard.  He thinks a lot of you, Derry.  And then he asked me which injury it was that hurt you, and I told him the one in the head.  What did he mean?  Were you hurt somewhere else, Derry?”

Keith swallowed hard, too.  “Not to speak of,” he said.  “You see, Mary Josephine, I’ve got a tremendous surprise for you, if you’ll promise it won’t spoil your appetite.  Last night was the first night I’ve spent in a real bed for three years.”

And then, without waiting for her questions, he began to tell her the epic story of John Keith.  With her sitting opposite him, her beautiful, wide-open, gray eyes looking at him with amazement as she sensed the marvelous coincidence of their meeting, he told it as he had not told it to McDowell or even to Miriam Kirkstone.  A third time the facts were the same.  But it was John Keith now who was telling John Keith’s story through the lips of an unreal and negative Conniston.  He forgot his own breakfast, and a look of gloom settled on Wallie’s face when he peered in through the door and saw that their coffee and toast were growing cold.  Mary Josephine leaned a little over the table.  Not once did she interrupt Keith.  Never had he dreamed of a glory that might reflect his emotions as did her eyes.  As he swept from pathos to storm, from the madness of long, black nights to starvation and cold, as he told of flight, of pursuit, of the merciless struggle that ended at last in the capture of John Keith, as he gave to these things words and life pulsing with the beat of his own heart, he saw them revisioned in those wonderful gray eyes, cold at times with fear, warm and glowing at other times with sympathy, and again shining softly with a glory of pride and love that was meant for him alone.