“Since Miss Strange did—­what?”

Ford was too deeply absorbed in his own meditations to notice the tone.

“I mean, since she pulled me through.”

Conquest’s face broke into a broad smile.

“Are you dreaming, old chap?  Or have you ’got ’em again’?”

“I’m going back in the story,” Ford explained, with a hint of impatience.  “I’m talking about the night when Miss Strange saved me.”

“Miss Strange saved you?  How?”

Ford raised himself slowly in his chair, his long legs stretched out straight before him, and his body bent stiffly forward, as he stared up at Conquest, in puzzled interrogation.

“Do you mean to say,” he asked, incredulously, “that she hasn’t told you—­that?”

“Perhaps you’ll be good enough to tell me yourself.  I’ll be hanged if I know what you’re talking about.”

There was suppressed irritation in the way in which he tore off the end of the cigar and struck a match.  Ford let himself sink back into the chair again.

“So she never told you!  By George, that’s like her!  It’s just what I might have expected.”

“Look here,” Conquest said, sharply, “did you know Miss Strange before you came up here from South America?” He stood with his cigar unlighted, for he had let the match burn down to his fingers before attempting to apply it.  “Was your taking the name of Strange,” he demanded with sudden inspiration, “merely an accident, as I’ve supposed it was—­or had it anything to do with her?”

“It wasn’t an accident, and it did have something to do with her.”

“Just so!  And you kept it dark!”

Something in Conquest’s intonation caused Ford to look up.  He saw a man with face suddenly growing gray, as though a light had gone out of it.  He was disturbed only to the point of feeling that he had spoken tactlessly, and proceeded to repair the error.

“I kept it dark for obvious reasons.  If Miss Strange didn’t tell you about it, it’s because she isn’t the kind of person to talk of an incident in which her own part was so noble.  I’ll give you the whole story now.”

“I should be obliged to you,” Conquest said, dryly.

He sat down on the very edge of one of the big arm-chairs, leaning forward, and fingering his still unlighted cigar nervously, as he watched Ford puff out successive rings of smoke before beginning.  He was less on his guard to screen the intenseness with which he listened, because Ford spoke at first in a dreamy way, without looking in his direction.