Mr Burton's answer was not exactly a response to this peremptory invitation.

'I'm not feeling--as I ought to feel.'

'So I should think. You'll soon be feeling still less as you ought to feel, if you don't look out.' He a.s.sisted the gentleman on to his feet. 'Now, then, pull yourself together. Come and see if what the Flyman's got is your uncle's ring.'

As Mr Burton advanced, the Flyman dropped the hand with the ringed finger.

'Don't you let him s.n.a.t.c.h at it, or I'll down him.'

'He won't s.n.a.t.c.h at it. You needn't be afraid of him.'

'I'm not afraid of him--hardly; only I thought I'd just give you a little warning, that's all. There you are, Mr Burton; there's what's worth more to you than you're likely to tell me.'

Mr Burton only bestowed upon the outstretched hand a momentary glance; he drew back as if what he saw had stung him.

'It's not!'

'What d'ye mean?'

'It's not my uncle's ring.' The fall, or something, had sobered him.

He had become disagreeable instead. He snarled, showing his teeth to the gums, as if he would have liked to a.s.sail the man in front of him with tooth and nail. 'Curse you, Flyman! what's the game you're playing?'

'What's the game you think you're playing, that's what I want to know?'

'That's not my uncle's ring, and you know it's not. Come, out with it!

no tricks here!'

'This is your uncle's ring, and you're trying to kid me that it isn't, thinking to do me out of what you promised. Don't you try that on, Mr Burton, or you'll be sorry.'

The two men glared at each other with their faces close together, Mr Burton meeting the Flyman's threatening glances without flinching. He turned to Mr c.o.x.

'c.o.x, what he's got on his finger is no more my uncle's ring than I am.'

'You're sure of that?'

'Dead certain. The stone in my uncle's ring was much larger, better colour, finer altogether. It bore his crest--on that thing there seems to be a monogram--and inside the gold mount, at the back, his name was engraved--"George Burton."'

'We can soon settle that part of the question. Flyman, is there a name inside that ring?'

The Flyman was already looking for himself.

'There's not; there's no name. Is this a plant between you two to do me out of my fair due?'

'Don't you make any mistake about that, my man. If that's the ring we want you shall have your thousand right enough. It's worth all that to us. If it's not, then it's worth nothing, and less than nothing. Don't let's have any error about this, Burton. You're quite sure that you recollect what your uncle's ring was like?'

'I'd pick it out among ten thousand. I've seen it hundreds--I should think, thousands--of times. I wore it myself for a year. It used to amuse the old man to fool about with it, lending it to all sorts of people. He lent it to me, and he lent it to Guy. I believe he lent it to Miss Bewicke; and it was because, when he asked her, she wouldn't give it him back again that he got his back up.'

'I suppose, Flyman, it was Mr Holland you tackled?'

'It was the bloke you pointed out to me this afternoon--that I do know. Here, I borrowed these things from off him--took them out of his pockets.' He produced a miscellaneous collection. Here's a cigar-case with initials on it, "G. H.," and cards inside with a name on them, "Mr Guy Holland." I should think that that ought to be about good enough.'

'You're sure that that was the only ring he had about him?'

'I'll swear to it. I ran the rule over him quite half a dozen times.

He only had one ring--there wasn't one upon his hands--and that's it.'

'And you, Burton, are certain it's not your uncle's?'

'As sure as that I'm alive.'

'Then, in that case, we're done.'

The trio looked as if they were.

CHAPTER X

SHE WISHES THAT SHE HADN'T

Miss Broad had a very bad night. That was because of her conscience, which p.r.i.c.ked her. Almost as soon as Mr Holland had left her she regretted the advice she had given him--advice, she had the candour to admit, as applied to this case, being but a feeble word. She had bullied him into committing burglary! It was awful to think of, or, at least, it became awful by degrees. A sort of panorama of dreadful imaginings began to unfold itself in front of her. She even pictured him as being caught in the act, arrested, thrown into gaol, tried, sentenced to penal servitude, working in the quarries--she had heard of 'the quarries'--because of her. She did not pause to consider that, after all, he was responsible for his own actions. He loved her; by obedience he proved it, even to the extent of committing burglary.

Therefore, the blame of what she did was on her shoulders.

So she upbraided herself, regretting too late, as ladies sometimes do, the line of action she had taken up with so much vigour.

'I wish I'd bitten my tongue off before I'd been so wicked. The truth is, I really believe I'd like to kill that woman. Ellen, you needn't pull my hair right out.'

The first two remarks were addressed to herself, the last, aloud, to her maid. That young person, who was dressing Miss Broad for dinner, found her mistress in rather a trying mood.

'If he was detected in the act, he would be at that woman's mercy. She might compel him to do anything in order to avoid open humiliation and disgrace and ruin.'

At the thought of what he might be compelled to do, she was divided between terror, tears and rage. Since the woman had once pretended to love him, and, no doubt, was still burning with a desire to be his wife, she might even force him--oh, horrible!

'Ellen, you're pulling my hair again.'

Which was not to be wondered at, considering how unexpectedly the young lady jerked her head.

She ate no dinner, excused herself from two engagements, made herself generally so agreeable that she drove her father to remark that her temper was not improving, and he pitied the man who had anything to do with her. Which observation added to her misery, for she knew quite well that her temper was her weakest point. She was a wretch, and she had ruined him!

Throughout the night she scarcely slept. She was continually getting off the bed to pace the room, exclaiming,--

'I wonder if he's doing it now?'

She must have wondered if he was doing it 'now' nearly a hundred times, apparently under the impression that 'it' was an operation which took time.

The result was that, when the morning came, she did not feel rested, and looked what she felt, causing her father--an uncomfortably observant gentleman, who prided himself, with justice, on being able to say as many disagreeable things as any man--to remark that she looked 'vinegary,' which soured Miss Broad still more.