“I beg your pardon, Phil,” he added soberly, “but your words were droll. Tell me about it?”
Phil unburdened himself to his roommate; telling of the noise that he had heard in the handling room the day before; of his suspicions, and of the fatal mistake he had made in not confiding in Lazar before the firing commenced; then of the accident and Lazar’s accusations.
“But why should he accuse you?” Sydney asked aghast.
“I don’t know, but he has,” Phil answered, “and I was struck dumb. I can’t explain to him now. It would only make things worse.”
Sydney thought deeply.
“Phil, the idea is preposterous,” he said decidedly; “he certainly has better sense than to accuse you openly of this.”
“That’s the worst of it,” Phil answered sorrowfully; “all he need do is to cast a suspicion on me and then I must endeavor to clear myself of the suspicion, and I can’t. If I tell what I have told you, those who are ready to believe I am capable of doing such a cowardly act to spite Lazar, will see all the more proof that I am guilty.”
“It surely is complicated,” Sydney replied.
Phil opened his desk drawer and picked up the locket, holding it out to Sydney.
“This is what I found in the handling room. There’s a girl’s picture inside. It doesn’t belong to any of the turret’s crew, at least none have claimed it.”