sibilities of such a tale had suddenly dawned upon him, his face became illumined with that look which must come at times into the faces of great creative artists. He said, "Yes, I might have lost my memory, not knowing who I was, or where I came from, and then, after twenty-six years, I got another fall . . . how? . . . well out of the mow on my ranch in Australia, and when I came to, I remembered everything—that I had a wife in America. It's true—it might happen. I've read of such things."
Listening to him, Emma felt the story seemed too preposterous, and yet she knew that only heroic measures could save the situation. The bolder the tale, the better. It was, as he said, a story that might be true. Such things had happened. She could trust him, too, to make the tale a convincing one: the only danger lay in the possibility of his doing it too well. It occurred to her in the midst of her desperate planning that it was strange what wild, incredible things had happened in her life . . . a life devoted always to hard work and Christian living.
Jason's glittering mind had been working rapidly. He was saying, "You see, there's the scar and everything." He bent down, exposing the bald spot that was the only sign of his decay. "You see, there it is—the scar."
She looked at him scornfully, for the crisis of her emotion had passed now, and she was beginning to feel herself once more. "Now, Jason," she said, "I haven't forgotten where that scar came from. You've always had it. You got it in Hennessey's saloon."
For a second the dash went out of him. "Now, Em, you're not going to begin on that, the minute I get
