"Edward Craig is still alive!" I answered. "He did not die in Cromer, as we have all believed."
"Edward Craig!" she echoed, amazed. "How do you know? I—I mean—mon Dieu!—it's impossible!"
"It seems impossible, but it is, nevertheless, a fact, Lola," I declared in a low, earnest tone as I bent towards her. I had watched her face and, by its expression, knew the truth. "And you," I added, slowly, "have been aware of this all along."
"I—I——" she faltered in French, opening her big blue eyes widely, as the colour mounted to her cheeks in her confusion.
"No," I interrupted, raising my hand in protest. "Please do not deny it. You have known that Craig did not die, Lola. You may as well, at once, admit your knowledge."
"Certainement, I have not denied it," was her low reply.
"How did you know he was alive?" I asked.
"Well," and then she hesitated. But, after a few seconds' reflection, she went on: "After that affair at Lobenski's in Petersburg, I was leaving at night for Berlin, by the Ostend rapide, with some of the stolen stones sewn in my dress, as I told you, when, just as the train moved off from the platform, I fancied I caught sight of him. But only for a second. Then, when I came to consider all the facts, I felt convinced that my eyes must have deceived me. Edward Craig was dead and buried, and the man on the railway platform must have only borne some slight resemblance to him."
Was she deceiving me? I wondered.
"Have you since seen the same man anywhere else?" I asked her, seriously.