“Because I can say nothing.”
“But you have a theory?”
“It may not be the right one,” he answered in a hard, strained voice.
“At least you know who the man was?” I said. “You have already mentioned his name.”
“Can you tell me why he, a perfect stranger, wore upon his finger the portrait of Lady Lolita?” I asked.
“For the same reason, I suppose, that a woman wears in a locket a portrait of a man.”
“You imply that he was Lolita’s lover?”
“I imply nothing,” he said vaguely. “I make no statement at all. I have indeed told you that the matter is one which it is wiser not to discuss.”
“But can’t you see how, in my position, that terrible affair is of greatest moment to my happiness and peace of mind?” I pointed out. “Who was he? What brought him to the park on that night?”
“I don’t know.”