“I see,” I said slowly. I was going over in my own mind the story he had told me. For the first time I noted discrepancies in it which I had disregarded⁠—an assurance of money, the power to buy back the diamonds of Nadina, the way in which he had preferred to speak of both men from the point of view of an outsider. And when he had said “my friend” he had meant, not Eardsley, but Lucas. It was Lucas, the quiet fellow, who had loved Nadina so deeply.

“How did it come about?” I asked.

“We were both reckless⁠—anxious to get killed. One night we exchanged identification discs⁠—for luck! Lucas was killed the next day⁠—blown to pieces.”

I shuddered.

“But why didn’t you tell me now? This morning? You couldn’t have doubted my caring for you by this time?”