Barr Amelia E.
I, Thou, and the Other One: A Love Story

“Nothing wrong will happen, Mother.”

“To be sure, the floor of the House of Commons is a bit different from his own hearthstone. When Edgar is a Parliament man, father will give him his place.”

“And Edgar will never forget to give father his place, I am sure of that.”

“I wouldn’t stand a minute with him if he did. What a father and son say to each other in their homestead, is home talk; but Edgar must not threep his father before strangers. No, indeed!”

“I wouldn’t wonder if father comes round a little to Edgar’s views. He listened very patiently to Cecil North, the last time they talked on politics.”

“He has to listen in Parliament, and so he is getting used to listening. He never listened patiently at home–not even to me. But we can hope for the best anyhow, Kitty.”

“To be sure, Mother. Hoping for the best is far better than looking for the worst.”

“I should think it was. Do you believe Piers will be in London at Christmas?”

“I fear not. Mother, he is going to send us each a ring at Christmas; then we will forget the other ring–shall we not?”

“I don’t know, Kitty. I think a deal of that other ring. No new one can make up for it. Why, my dear, your father gave it to me the night I promised to marry him. We were standing under the big white hawthorn at Belward. I’ll never forget that hour.”

“It is so long ago, Mother–you cannot care very much now about it.”

“Now, Kitty, if you think only young people can be in love, get that idea out of your mind at once. You don’t know anything about love yet. After twenty-five years bearing, and forbearing, and childbearing, you will smile at your gentle-shepherding of to-day. Your love is only a fancy now, it will be a fact then that has its foundations in your very life. You do not love Piers Exham, child, as I love your father. You can’t. It isn’t to be expected. And it is a good thing, love is so ordered; for if it did not grow stronger, instead of weaker, marrying would be a poor way of living.”

“That weary ring! I am so sorry that I ever put it on.”

“I did not ask you to put it on, Kitty. I did not want you to put it on.”

“Mother, please don’t be cross.”

“Kitty, don’t be unjust; it is not like you.”

Then Kitty laid her cheek against her mother’s cheek, and said sadly, “I fear, somehow, that ring will make trouble between Piers and me.”

“Nonsense, dearie! The ring is lost and gone. It can’t make trouble now.”

“Its loss was a bad omen, Mother.”

“There is no omen against true love, Kitty. Love counts every sign a good sign.”

“The Duke was very formal with me at my last visit. The Duchess dislikes me; and Miss Vyner has so many opportunities; it seems nearly impossible that Piers should ever marry me.”

“If Piers loves you, there is no impossibility. Love works miracles. You cannot say ‘impossible’ to Love. Love will find out a way.”

CHAPTER NINTH
A FOOLISH VIRGIN

Parliament was adjourned on the twenty-third of December, and did not re-assemble until the third of February. The interval was one of great public excitement and of great private anxiety. The country had been assured of a Government pledged to Reform; and, in the main, were waiting as patiently as men, hungry and naked, and burning with a sense of injury and injustice, could wait. But no one knew what hour a spark might be cast into such inflammable material,–that would mean Revolution instead of Reform.

Consequently life was depressed, and not disposed to any exhibition of wealth or festivity; the most heartless and reckless feeling that it would not be endured by men and women on the very verge of starvation. The Queen also was unpopular, and the great social leaders were, as a general thing, bitter political partisans; in theatres and ball-rooms and even on the streets, the Whig and Tory ladies, when they met, looked at one another as Guelphs and Ghibellines, instead of christened English gentlewomen.

Both the Duchess of Richmoor and Miss Vyner were women of strong and irrepressible prejudices; and, before Parliament adjourned, they had made for themselves an environment of active, political enemies. And women carry their politics into their domestic and social life; the Duchess had wounded many of her oldest friends; and Annabel, with the haughty intolerance of youth and wealth, had succeeded in making herself a person whom all the ladies of the Reform party delighted either to positively offend, or to scornfully ignore.

These circumstances, with all her audacity and advantages, she was unable to control. Her brilliant beauty, her clever tongue, her ostentatious dress and display were as nothing against the united disposition of a score of other women to make her understand that they neither desired her friendship nor felt her influence; and she had at least the sense to retire from a conflict “whose weapons,” she said contemptuously, “were not in her armory.” This condition of affairs naturally threw her very much upon the Athelings for society. While the Duchess sat with a few old ladies of her own caste and political persuasion, talking fearfully of the state of English society and of the horrors Reform would inaugurate for the nobility, Annabel spent her time with Mrs. and Miss Atheling, and learned to look hopefully into a future in which, perhaps, there would be neither dukes nor lords. Besides, Cecil North had a habit of visiting the Athelings also; and, without expressed arrangement, both Cecil and Annabel looked forward to those charming lunches which Mrs. Atheling dispensed with so little ceremony and so much good nature. It had been Cecil’s intention to go with Edgar into the country; but when the hour for departure arrived, he had not been able to leave Annabel’s vicinity, and, in some of those mysterious ways known to Love, she understood, and was pleased with this evidence of her power.

Cecil’s mother had been particularly prominent in that social ostracism the Reform ladies had meted out to her; and it gave to the real liking which she had for Cecil a piquant relish to parade the young man as her devoted servant in all places where his noble mother would be likely to see or hear tell of her son’s “infatuation.” But Cecil North’s affection, and the favour it received, did not much influence Kate. With the perversity of a woman in love, she believed Annabel to be only amusing herself during Lord Exham’s absence; and she accepted, without a doubt, all the little innuendoes, and half-truths, and half-admissions which Annabel suffered herself, as it were, without intent, to make.

Thus the dreary winter days passed slowly away. In January Edgar returned. His election had been a mere walk over the ground. The patron of the borough of Shereham had spoken the word, and Edgar Atheling was its lawful representative. It was a poor little place, but it gave Edgar a vote on the right side; and Earl Grey also hoped much from his power as a natural orator. He might take Brougham’s place, and be far more amenable to directions than Brougham had ever been. Mrs. Atheling considered none of these things. She took in only the grand fact that her son was in Parliament, and that he must have won his place there by some transcendent personal merit. True, she had some little qualms of fear as to how Edgar’s father would treat the new representative of Englishmen; but her invincible habit of hoping and her cheerful way of looking into the future did not suffer these passing doubts to seriously mar her glory and pride in her son’s dignity.

In fact, even in Annabel’s eyes, Edgar Atheling was now an important person. Women do not consider causes, they look at results; and in Edgar Atheling’s case the result was satisfactory. On the day the new member for Shereham returned home, she was lunching with the Athelings, eating her salad and playing with Cecil North’s heart, when Edgar entered the room. His honour sat well on him; he neither paraded, nor yet affectedly ignored it. His mother’s pride, his sister’s pleasure, and the congratulations of his friends made him happy, and he showed it. The lunch that was nearly finished was delayed for another hour. No one liked to break up the delightful meal and conversation; and when Annabel got back to Richmoor House the short day was over, and the Duchess had sent an escort to hurry her return.

“You are exceedingly imprudent, Annabel,” she said, when the girl entered her presence; “and I do think it high time you stopped visiting so much at one house.”

“Duchess, will you say what other house equally charming is open to me? You know how little of a favourite I am. To-day I was delayed by an event,–the return of young Atheling after his election. He is now an M. P.,–a great honour for so young a man, I think.”

“Honour, indeed! Grey or Durham, or some of those renegades to their own caste, have given him a seat. Grey would give a seat to a puppy if it could bark ‘aye’ for him.”

“Well, I should not think Atheling will be a dumb dog; he has a ready tongue. Mr. North says he will take Brougham’s place.”

“He will do nothing of the kind. Young Atheling is a fine talker when he has to face a mob of grumbling men on a Yorkshire moor or a city common. It is a different thing, Annabel, to stand up before the gentlemen of England. As for Mr. North, I have told you before that both the Duke and myself seriously object to that entanglement.”

Annabel laughed. “There is no entanglement, Duchess,–that is, on my part.”

“Then why throw yourself continually in the young man’s way?”

“You are scarcely polite. He throws himself in my way.”

“Pardon. I meant nothing disrespectful.”

“And I have reasons.”

“May I know them?”

“Yes. Mr. North’s mother was particularly insulting to me at the last Morning Concert I attended. I heard also that she had spoken of me as ‘an Indian girl of doubtful parentage.’ She is particularly fond of Cecil, who is her youngest child, and she is trying to make a marriage between him and that enormously rich Miss Curzon. I am going to defeat her plans.”

Then the Duchess laughed. “I never interfere with any woman’s retributions,” she said. “But do not burn yourself at the fire you kindle for others.”

“I am fire-proof.”

“I must think so, or surely Piers would have influenced you.”

“Lord Exham never tried to ‘influence’ me; and only one woman in the world can ‘influence’ him.”

“You mean Miss Atheling, of course; and I have already told you that there is not even a supposition in that case. Miss Atheling is out of the question. The Duke would never consent to such a marriage; and I would never forgive it. Never! I should prefer to lose my son altogether.”

“Then you ought to let Miss Atheling know how you feel. She is a very honourable, yes, a very proud girl. She would not force herself into your family, no matter how much she loved your son. Now, I would. If I had thought you did not want me to marry Lord Exham, I should probably have been his wife to-day.”

The Duchess glanced at the speaker a little scornfully, and said, “Perhaps you over-estimate your abilities. However, Annabel, your suggestion about Miss Atheling has much likelihood. I shall make an opportunity to speak to her. Will you go out to-night? There will be the usual crush at Lady Paget’s.”

“Excuse me, I do not wish to go.” The statement was correct. She had begun to weary of a routine of visiting that lacked decisive personal interest. She had many lovers; but even love-making grows tiresome unless it is reciprocal, or has some spice of jealousy, or some element of the chase in it. Cecil North did interest her, and Piers Exham did stimulate her desire for conquest; but Cecil was most pleasantly met at the Athelings, and Lord Exham was in Yorkshire.

So, after dining alone with the Duchess, she went to a little drawing-room that was her favourite resort. The great ash logs burned brightly on the white marble hearth, and threw shifting lights on the white-and-gold furnishings, on the pictured walls, on the ferns and flowers, and on the lovely marble forms of two wood nymphs among them. She placed herself comfortably in a large easy-chair, with her back to the argand lamp, and stretched out her sandalled feet before the blaze, and nestled her head among the soft white cushions. The delicious drowsy atmosphere was a physical satisfaction of the highest order to her, quite as much so as it was to the splendid Persian cat that grumblingly resigned, at her order, the pleasantest end of the snow-white rug.

“Now I can think,” she said with lazy satisfaction, as she closed her restless eyes and began the operation. “In the first place, I have set a ball rolling that I may not be able to manage. It is in the hand of the Duchess, and she will have no scruples–she never has, if she is fighting for her own side. Perhaps I ought not to have given her such a ‘leader,’ for Kate Atheling has always been kind to me–thoughtful about Cecil, ready at making excuses to let us have a little solitude, arranging shopping excursions in his presence, so that he would know where he could ‘accidentally’ meet us–and so on. No, it was not exactly kind; but then, in love and war, all things are fair–and I dare say Miss Kate’s motives were probably selfish enough. She would give me Cecil to make her own way clear to Piers; and, also, Cecil is a favourite with the Athelings and young Atheling’s friend; and they know that he is poor, and doubtless wish to help him to a rich wife. Every one works out their own plan, why should not I do the same? But I must find out something about that ring, and, as the straight way is the best way, I will ask Kate the necessary questions. She will be sure to betray herself.”

Then she opened her purse, took out the ring, and placed it upon her finger, holding up her hand to the blaze to catch its reflections. “It is a pretty little thing, but I have bought it two or three times over with my diamond locket. I wonder why Kate never wears that locket! Is it too fine? Or has she some feeling against me? I gave her it at Christmas, and I have only seen it once on her neck–that is strange! I never thought of it before–it really is not much of a ring–I have twenty finer ones–and I dare say I shall give it back some day: yes, of course I shall give it back–but at present–” and she stopped thinking of the demands of the present, and taking the ring off her finger laid it in the palm of her hand, and softly tossed it and the Hindoo charm up and down together ere she replaced them in their receptacle.

Evidently she had arranged things comfortably with herself, for, after closing the purse, she began to swing it by its golden chain before the cat’s eyes, until the creature became thoroughly annoyed, and tried to catch the gleaming, tantalising worry with its claws. The play delighted her; she gave herself up to its tormenting charm, and for once lost, in the momentary amusement, all consciousness of herself and her appearance. It was then the great white door swung noiselessly open, and Lord Exham stood within it. The sensuous little drama, so full of colour and life, instantly arrested him; and he stood motionless to watch it. The girl’s strong, vivid face, her black hair, her dress of bright scarlet, her arms and hands flashing with gems, were thrown into dazzling prominence by the chair of white brocade in which she sat, and the white rug at her feet, and the lamp shining behind her. She waved the golden purse before the cat’s eyes, and let it almost fall into the eager paws, and then drew it backward with a little laugh, and was not aware that she was, in the act, an absolutely bewitching type of mere physical beauty.

But Piers was aware of it. He forgot everything but delight in the moving picture; and, as he advanced, he cried, in a voice full of pleasure, “Annabel! Annabel!” And the girl answered her name with an instantaneous movement towards him. Her radiant face looked into his face, and ere they were aware they had met in each other’s arms and Piers had kissed her.

She was silent and smiling, and he instantly recovered himself. “I ask your pardon,” he said, releasing her and bowing gravely; “but you are one of the family, you know, and I have been long away, and am so glad to get home again that some liberty must be excused me.”

“Oh, indeed!” she answered, with a pretty pout, “I think the apology is the worst part of the business,” and she looked into his eyes with that steady, unwinking gaze which none withstand. Then he drew her closer, and said softly, “You are simply bewildering to-night, Annabel. How have you made yourself so beautiful?” As he spoke he led her to her seat, and drew a chair close to her side; and the cat leaped to his knee and began to loudly purr her satisfaction in her master’s return.

“Are you alone to-night?” he asked. “Or perhaps you are expecting company?”

“I am alone. I expected no company; but Destiny loves surprises, and to-night she has surpassed herself. The Duchess has gone to Lady Paget’s. I could not sacrifice myself so far. You know what her political nights are. And if it is not Relief Bills, and Reform Bills, then it is Mr. Clarkson and Anti-Slavery; and we are solemnly told to make little petticoats for the negro children if we desire to go to heaven.” She laughed, and dropped her eyes, and was silent; and the silence grew dangerous. Fortunately, she herself broke the spell by asking Piers if he had seen Squire Atheling in Yorkshire.

“We came from Yorkshire together,” he said. Then he began to talk about the election, and in a few minutes a butler announced his dinner, and Annabel’s hour was over.

She was not disappointed. “We went far enough,” she thought. “I am not yet ready to put my hand out further than I can draw it back. I cannot give up Cecil now; he is the only private pleasure I have. Every other thing I share with the Duchess, or somebody else. And Piers I should have to share with her and the Duke. As heir to the dukedom, they will always retain a right in his time and interests. No, Lord Exham, not yet–not yet.”

She rose with the words, and went to the piano and dashed off in splendid style that famous old military fantasia, “The Battle of Prague.” And the drift of her uncontrolled thoughts during it may be guessed by the first query she made of her intelligence when the noisy music ceased:–

“I wonder what the Athelings are doing? Piers says the Squire is at home. I suppose Mrs. Atheling and Kate are coddling, and petting, and feeding him.”

In some respects Annabel judged fairly well. The Squire reached his home about the same time that Lord Exham arrived at Richmoor House, and found Mrs. Atheling waiting to receive him. He made no secret of his joy in seeing her again. “I was afraid thou mightst be gadding about somewhere, Maude,” he said. “It is pleasant to find thee at home.”

“John Atheling!”

“Well, it is too bad to say such a thing, Maude. I knew well I would find thee at home when there was either chance or likelihood of my getting back there. But where is little Kitty? It isn’t right without Kitty.”

“Well, John, Squire Pickering’s family came to London a few days ago, and Kitty has gone to the theatre with them.”

“I’ll tell thee a good joke about Squire Pickering, Maude,” said the Squire, laughing heartily as he spoke. “He was feared young Sam Pickering was going to vote for Reform, and he served a writ on him for a trespass, or something of that sort, and got him put safely in jail till voting time was over. Then he quashed the writ and let the lad out. But, my word! young Sam is fighting furious, and he has treated his father nearly as bad as Edgar treated me.”

“Edgar is going to Parliament now. I told thee he would. John, for goodness’ sake, don’t quarrel with him before all England!”

“Maude Atheling! I never quarrelled with Edgar. Never! He quarrelled with me. If he had done his duty by his father, we would have been finger and thumb, buckle and strap, yesterday, and to-day, and to-morrow, and every other day. The Duke says my anger at Edgar is quite reasonable and justifiable.”

“The Duke! So then thou art framing thy opinions to what he says. Dear me! I wouldn’t have believed such a thing could ever come to pass.”

“Wait till it does come to pass. Why, Richmoor and I very near came to quarrelling point because I would not frame my opinions by his say-so. I have been looking into things a bit, Maude, more than I ever did before, and I have learned what I am not going to deny for anybody. I met Philip Brotherton of Knaseborough, and he asked me to go home with him for two or three days–You know Philip and I have been friends ever since we were lads, and our fathers before us.”

“I know that.”

“So I went with him, and he showed me how working men live and labour in such towns as Leeds and Manchester; and I am not going to say less than it is a sin and a shame to keep human beings alive on such terms. I do not believe any Reform Bill is going to help them; but they ought to be helped; and they must be helped; or else government is nothing but blunderment, and legislating nothing but folly. And I said as much to Richmoor, and he asked me if my son had been lecturing me; and I told him I had been using my own eyes, and my own ears, and my own conscience.”

“What did he say to that?”

“He said, ‘Squire, I do not like your associating with Philip Brotherton. The man has radical ideas, though he does not profess them.’ And I said, ‘I like Philip Brotherton, and I shall associate with him whenever I can make it convenient to do so; and as for his ideas, if they are radical, then Christianity is radical; and as for professing them, Philip Brotherton does better than that, he lives them;’ and I went on to say that I thought it would be a right and righteous thing if both landlords and loomlords would do the same.”

“My word, John! Thou didst speak up! I’ll warrant Richmoor was angry enough.”

The Squire laughed a little as he answered, “Well, Maude, he got as red in the face as a turkey-cock, and he asked me if I was really going to be Philip Brotherton’s fool. And I answered, ‘No, I am like you, Duke, I do my own business in that line.’ And he said, ‘Squire Atheling!’ and turned on his heel and walked one way; and I said, ‘Duke Richmoor!’ and turned on my heel and walked the other way. Now then, Maude, dost thou think he orders my opinions for me?”

And Mrs. Atheling smiled understandingly in her lord’s face, and cut him a double portion from the best part of the haunch of venison she was carving.

A few days after this event Annabel called one morning at the Athelings. She expected Cecil North to be there, and he was not there; she waited for him to come, and he did not come; she tried in many devious ways to get Kate to express an opinion about his absence, and Kate seemed entirely unconscious of it. It provoked her into an ill-natured anger; and, casting about in her mind for something disagreeable to say, she remembered her resolve to find out how the sapphire ring came to be in Lord Exham’s possession. Even if “the straight way had not been the best way,” she was by nature inclined to direct inquiries; and she had just proven in her mental manœuvring about Cecil North that indirect methods were not satisfactory. So she said bluntly:–

“Kate, did you ever hear about Lord Exham losing a ring he valued very much?”

“Yes,” answered Kate, without the slightest embarrassment; “it was my mother’s ring.”

“Your mother’s ring?”

“Yes.”

“But Lord Exham had it on his finger.”

“My mother loaned it to him. He admired it very much, and wished to have one made like it.”

“The Duchess was sure that some lady had given it to him as a love gage. Do you know that he has fretted himself sick about its loss?”

“Oh, no! I am sure he is not sick. My mother made light of the loss to him, though she really was very much attached to that particular ring.”

“Have I ever seen her wear it?”

“No. It was too small for her.”

“Then it was a simple souvenir?”

“It was more than that; it was her betrothal ring. Father bought it in Venice.”

“Oh!”

“But she had a slim little hand, then–like mine is now–” said Kate, laughing, and spreading out her hand for Annabel to observe.

“Then you must have been talking of rings, and shown it to him.”

“I was wearing it. I had it on during the lunch hour, and you were present. It is a wonder you did not notice it, for you are so curious about finger-rings.”

“Yes, I am quite a ring collector.”

“It was rather a singular ring.”

“Will you describe it to me?”

Kate did so, and Annabel listened with apparent curiosity. “I wonder what Exham could want with such a queer ring,” she said in answer.

“Perhaps he is also a ring collector.”

“Perhaps!” But the one word by no means explained the thoughts forming in her mind. She rose, and, lifting her bonnet, went to a mirror and carefully tied the satin ribbons under her chin, in the big bows then considered vastly becoming. Kate tried to arrest her hands. “Stay and take lunch with us,” she urged. “Edgar is sure to be here; and I should like him to see you in that pretty cloth pelisse.”

“Mr. Atheling never notices me; then why should he notice my pelisse? I heard Lady Inglis say that he is very much in Miss Curzon’s society. If so, he will clash with his friend Mr. North, who is also her devoted slave.”

“Now, Annabel! You know that Cecil North loves no one but you.”

“How can you be so wise about his love-affairs?”

“No great wisdom is needed to see what he cannot hide.”

“Was he here yesterday?”

“He was here last night. He called to tell us he was going to Westover on some business for his father. I suppose he wanted you to know.”

“But you never thought of telling me. How selfish girls in love are! They cannot think a thought beyond their own lover. I declare I was going without giving you my news,–the Duchess has a large dinner party on the first of March. The Tory ladies will wait in her rooms the reading of this famous Reform Bill that Lord John Russell is concocting, and there will be a great crowd. Kate, if I was you, I would wear your court dress. It is very unlikely that the Queen will receive at all this season.”

“Perhaps we shall not be invited to the dinner.”

“You certainly will be invited. I heard the list read, and as your name begins with ‘A’ it was almost the first. If Mr. Atheling does come to lunch, give him my respects and describe my pelisse to him.”

She went away with this mocking message, and was driven first to a famous jeweller’s, where she bought a sapphire band sufficiently like the one Lord Exham had lost to pass for it, if the view was cursory and at a distance. Kate’s confidence had made one course exceedingly plain to Annabel. She said to herself as she drove through the city streets, “My best plan is evidently to arouse Squire Atheling’s suspicions. I will let him see the ring on my hand. I will lead him to think Piers gave it to me. He will of course make inquiries, and I wonder what Mrs. Atheling and Kate will say. It is a pretty piece of confusion–and, if the matter goes too far, I reserve the power to play the good fairy and put all right. This is a complication I shall enjoy thoroughly, and I am sure, with nothing on earth but Reform and Revolution in my ears, I deserve some little private amusement. All I have to do is to be constantly ready for opportunities.”

Opportunities, however, with Squire Atheling, were few and far between. It was not until the day before the first of March she found one. On that afternoon she called at the Athelings, and found Mrs. and Miss Atheling out. The Squire was walking from the fire-place to the window, and from the window to the fire-place, and grumbling at their absence. Miss Vyner’s entrance diverted him for a few minutes; and as they were talking a servant brought in a small package. The Squire took it up, and laid it down, and then took it up again, and was evidently either anxious or curious concerning its contents.

“Why do you not open your package, Squire?” asked Annabel.

“Well, young lady, I am not going to act as if your presence was not entertainment enough and to spare.”

“Nonsense! Please do not stand on ceremony with me. It may contain important papers–something relating to Church or State. I am only a young woman. Open it, Squire.”

“Well, then, if you say so, I will open it,” and he began fumbling at the well-tied string. Annabel saw her opportunity. In a moment she had slipped on to the forefinger of her right hand the lost ring, and the next moment she had gently pushed aside the Squire’s hands, and was saying, “Let me unfasten the knots. I am cleverer at that work than you.”

“To be sure you are. There is work little fingers do better than big ones, and this is that kind of a job. But I will get my knife and cut the knots; that is the best and quickest way.”

He began to hunt in his pockets for his knife, but could not find it. “Dobson never does put things where they ought to be,” he said fretfully; and then he pulled the bell-rope for Dobson with a force that fully indicated his annoyance. In the mean time, Annabel was quietly untying the string, and the Squire naturally watched her efforts. He was complaining and scolding his servant and his womenkind, and Annabel did not heed him; but when he suddenly stopped speaking, in the middle of a sentence, she looked into his face. It expressed the blankest wonder and curiosity. His eyes were fixed upon her hands, and he would probably have asked her some inconvenient question if Dobson had not entered at the moment. Then Annabel retired. Dobson had taken the parcel in charge, and she excused herself from further delay.

“I have several things to do,” she said, “and I shall only be in the way of the parcel and its contents. Tell Mrs. Atheling and Kate that I called, will you, Squire?”

“To be sure! To be sure, Miss Vyner,” he answered; but his eyes were on the papers Dobson was unfolding, and his mind was vaguely wandering to the ring he had seen on her finger. When he had satisfied his curiosity concerning the papers, his thoughts returned with persistent wonder to it. “I’ll wager my best hunter, yes, I’ll wager Flying Selma that was the ring I bought in Venice and gave to Maude. How did that girl get it? Maude would never sell it or give it away. Never! Dal it! there is something queer in her having it. I must find out how it comes to pass.”