Loder slowly followed him, and as the box was brought to light he leaned forward interestedly.

“As I told you, one is the copy of an old signet-ring, the other a plain band—­a plain gold band like a wedding-ring.”  Chilcote laughed as he placed the four rings side by side on his palm.  “I could think of nothing else that would be wide —­and not ostentatious.  You know how I detest display.”

Loder touched the rings.  “You have good taste,” he said.  “Let’s see if they serve their purpose?” He picked them up and carried them to the lamp.

Chilcote followed him.  “That was an ugly wound,” he said, his curiosity reawakening as Loder extended his finger.  “How did you come by it?”

The other smiled.  “It’s a memento,” he said.

“Of bravery?”

“No.  Quite the reverse.”  He looked again at his hand, then glanced back at Chilcote.  “No,” he repeated, with an unusual impulse of confidence.  “It serves to remind me that I am not exempt—­that I have been fooled like other men.”

“That implies a woman?”

“Yes.”  Again Loder looked at the scar on his finger.  “I seldom recall the thing, it’s so absolutely past.  But I rather like to remember it to-night.  I rather want you to know that I’ve been through the fire.  It’s a sort of guarantee.”

Chilcote made a hasty gesture, but the other interrupted it.

“Oh, I know you trust me.  But you’re giving me a risky post.  I want you to see that women are out of my line—­quite out of it.”

“But, my dear chap—­”

Loder went on without heeding.  “This thing happened eight years ago at Santasalare,” he said, “a little place between Luna and Pistoria—­a mere handful of houses wedged between two hills.  A regular relic of old Italy crumbling away under flowers and sunshine, with nothing to suggest the present century except the occasional passing of a train round the base of one of the hills.  I had literally stumbled upon the place on a long tramp south from Switzerland, and had been tempted into a stay at the little inn.  The night after my arrival something unusual occurred.  There was an accident to the train at the point where it skirted the village.

“There was a small excitement; all the inhabitants were anxious to help, and I took my share.  As a matter of fact, the smash was not disastrous; the passengers were hurt and frightened, but nobody was killed.”

He paused and looked at his companion, but, seeing him interested, went on: 

“Among these passengers was an English lady.  Of all concerned in the business, she was the least upset.  When I came upon her she was sitting on the shattered door of one of the carriages, calmly rearranging her hat.  On seeing me she looked up with the most charming smile imaginable.

“‘I have just been waiting for somebody like you,’ she said.  ’My stupid maid has got herself smashed up somewhere in the second-class carriages, and I have nobody to help me to find my dog.’