“Anne, forgive me, say you forgive me.”

He took my hand in his and almost mechanically I drew it away.

“Why did you deceive me?”

“I don’t know that I can make you understand. I was afraid of all that sort of thing—the power and fascination² of wealth. I wanted you to care for me just for myself—for the man I was—without ornaments³ and trappings.”

“You mean you didn’t trust me?”

“You can put it that way if you like, but it isn’t quite true. I’d become embittered⁴, suspicious—always prone⁵ to look for ulterior motives—and it was so wonderful to be cared for in the way you cared for me.”

“I see,” I said slowly. I was going over in my own mind the story he had told me. For the first time I noted⁶ discrepancies⁷ 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 shuddered⁸.

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

“Anne, I didn’t want to spoil it all. I wanted to take you back to the island. What’s the good of money? It can’t buy happiness. We’d have been happy on the island. I tell you I’m afraid of that other life—it nearly rotted me through once.”

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