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"Not very often," she said quickly; "and of course, when Miss Revelstoke is out"

"I'm not inviting you," said the calm man, with a twinkle in his eye. "I only wanted to know if you were in the habit of wandering about on foot in Berkeley Square? I see by your maidenly indignation that you are not."

She laughed in spite of herself.

"You imagine my maidenly indignation," she said. "I don't think I know Berkeley Square. At any rate, I've never walked there consciously."

"In your sleep, perhaps?" he suggested, so gravely that she thought he was serious.

"Why? Have I been reported to the police for somnambulism?" she challenged.

He shook his head.

"You're going to Heartsease next week, aren't you?" And, when she answered: "Are you a golfer?"

"I play golf, but I should be terrified to play at Heartsease," she said. "No, I am going in attendance on Miss Revelstoke. Why do you ask me? And what is the news of the Terrible People?" she added quickly.

Betcher Long sighed.

"I hoped you had forgotten all about them," he said. "I'm loquacious— that's what's the matter with me. Why I put such thoughts into your"— he paused for a proper adjective, and unaccountably she felt herself grow hot—"your head, I can't for the life of me understand."

He turned round and looked at the portrait of Miss Revelstoke again.

"Pretty girl, rather," he said. "Wonder why she never married?"

She could supply him with no reason. And yet, looking at the painting, she could only share his wonder. "Isn't it strange I never thought of her— like that?" All the time her mind was debating the question: should she tell him about the ring? That afternoon she would have welcomed such an opportunity, but now— suppose it was he who had sent it? She took her courage in both hands.

"Do you ever send presents to people?" she asked, and his eyebrows rose in surprise.

"Me? Good Lord, no! I think it is a waste of time and money. Birthday and Christmas gifts, you mean? No. Usually you send people a thing they don't want or something they already have. Why do you ask?"

For some extraordinary reason she was a little piqued by his answer.

"I wondered, that is all."

"You wondered, that is all," he said slowly, a frown gathering on his forehead. "Who has been sending you presents?"

"Nobody." She was being childish, she felt; there was no reason in the world why she shouldn't tell him about the diamond, and at the same time there was no reason why she should.

"Let me see it."

The calm insolence of the request took her breath away.

"Why should I?" she said, before she realized the admission in the words.

"Because I'm rather curious to see presents that are sent to"— another pause— "to girls, to my friends, I mean."

"I'm not even a friend," she said with a half smile. "And really, Mr. Long, I can't imagine why you should be so interested."

But he was.

"I might say that I don't see why you should interest me," he said, "but repartee was never my long suit. Will you show me?"

She hesitated for a second, then went up to her room. It was feeble of her, she told herself, to be dominated by a man who was little more than a stranger; and yet, for the moment, she could not resist the imponderable authority he wielded. She carried back the little box and sprung the lid. He looked at it for a little time and then took it in his hand and carried the ring to the window.

"Who sent this?"

She shook her head.

"I don't know. It came by registered post this morning. Miss Revelstoke thought"

Here she hesitated.

"She thought?"

"Well, she thought it might have been sent to me by somebody who liked me very much and didn't care to have me know."

He nodded.

"Have you any idea? Has Miss Revelstoke any idea who that 'somebody' was?"

Again she hesitated.

"She thought it was a friend of— of hers; a man I've only met once in my life."

"Monkford?"

She went red at this.

"Really, I think we ought not even to speculate upon the sender," she said. "I'd like to know who it was, because I should send it back by the next post."

He was examining the ring carefully, turning it overhand over between his fingers, looking at the interior of the gold circle as though he were searching for some mark which she had overlooked.

"Have you tried it on your finger?"

"No," she said, in surprise.

He took her hand in his and slipped it over first one finger and then the other. "It was originally made for a larger finger, but would have been shortened, and it fits your engagement finger— do you notice that? Now, how did he know?"

"Who— Mr. Monkford?"

He shook his head.

"No, Monkford didn't send you this; at least, I don't think so."

He handed the little case back to her.

"Monkford's a queer beggar, and even a detective who has been watching him does not pretend to know the secrets of his heart. The cleverest detective in the world can rarely discover the woman's man! Ever stand in a window of an hotel or an office and watch the crowds going up and down and try to place the professions of the passers-by? That's easy compared with knowing what your most intimate friend looks like from the point of view of his wife!"

He pondered the matter, his eyes fixed on the carpet, for fully a minute.

"You're going to Heartsease, aren't you?" he asked abruptly. "Where is your room?"

"I don't know," she answered, in surprise. "Miss Revelstoke usually has one of the best suites."

"I ought to have discovered that," he said thoughtfully, "but there'll be plenty of time. Who is going down besides you and Miss Revelstoke?"

"Nobody— oh, yes, Mr. Henry, Miss Revelstoke's lawyer, will be there for one day."

"Anybody else you know?"

She shook her head.

"Is Crayley a friend of Miss Revelstoke's?"

She frowned.

"Why, of course; yes, Mr. Jackson Crayley. Will he be there?"

"Yes, he will be there— and I shall be there, too," he said simply, "and I wish to Heaven— No, I don't. It is going to be hard work, but I'm going to get a lot of excitement—"

The door opened at that moment, and, to Nora's amazement, Miss Revelstoke walked in. She smiled at the girl, and for a second her eyes rested on the ring that was still in Nora's hand. From the girl her dark eyes wandered to the detective.

"And this is Mr. Long?" she said, with a quizzical smile. "Is he the guilty man? Has he confessed, Nora?"

Nora Sanders's lips had opened to answer, when, to her astonishment, Betcher Long nodded.

"Yes, Miss Revelstoke, I've made a clean breast of it. It's been in the family for years— my uncle bought it in Copenhagen in 1862!"

Miss Revelstoke's dark eyes did not flinch, but her sallow face had gone suddenly gray and old.

Chapter 15

FOR a moment the girl thought Miss Revelstoke would faint. She swayed slightly, and then, with a supreme exercise of her iron will, she smiled.

"How very interesting!" she said.

Arnold Long was looking at her curiously, eagerly, and his eyes had for the elder woman all the fascination of a snake. Try as she did, she could not look elsewhere than into those gray deeps.

"How very interesting!" she said again.

She spoke slowly, and he knew that she was deliberately masking the emotion his words had evoked.

"And you sent it to Nora? Well, that was very nice of you, Mr. Long."

Nora stood, paralyzed to inaction, looking from one to the other with startled eyes. What was the meaning of this extraordinary lie which Betcher Long had told? She was as certain as she was of anything that he had not sent her the ring— he had said as much. And yet, in the presence of her employer, he not only claimed to be the giver, but could invent its history.

But the effect of the words upon Miss Revelstoke was even more staggering. Never be ore in her association with the woman had she seen her so shaken.

"Won't you come to my study? There are one or two things I'd like to talk to you about, Mr. Long," said the woman at last.

From that moment on, she did not seem to be aware of Nora's presence.

"Why, yes." Betcher considered the request for a second. "I would like to have a talk with you, Miss Revelstoke, but before I go, I'd like to ask this young lady if she really objected to my sending her the ring?"

It was then that Miss Revelstoke looked at the girl.

"Well?" she asked, almost harshly.

"I don't think I ought to accept so handsome a present," said Nora, and, to her astonishment, he reached out and took the ring and the case from her hand.

"I was afraid you wouldn't," he said, and slipped the ring into his pocket. "Now, Miss Revelstoke."

For a second she did not move, and then, with a visible effort, she turned, and he followed her to the little study that opened from the drawing room. She closed the door behind him.

"Won't you take a chair?" she asked steadily, and he waited till she was seated and then sat down on the edge of a big Morris chair.

It was obvious to him that she did not know how to begin, was searching for an opening, and presently this was found.

"Naturally, I feel responsible for Miss Sanders," she began, "and when people send her expensive presents, I think I am entitled, being an old-fashioned woman, to ask—"

She was at a loss to proceed, and he filled the gap for her.

"To ask my intentions?" he smiled. "They are perfectly honourable. She is a nice girl; I like her very much. But when I sent the ring I was perhaps a little precipitate."

Her unwavering black eyes did not leave his face.

"You're a gentleman," she said, "and a college man, I believe? There is no reason why you should not wish to pay your addresses to Miss Sanders. Only it seems a little odd " Again she stopped.

"That I should send her valuable presents at the present stage of our friendship? That does seem odd, I admit," said Betcher. "In fact, it's the oddest thing I've ever done in my life. My uncle—"

"I'm not very much interested in your family history." The colour was back in her face; two red spots showed on either cheek. "I am very anxious, however, to know just how you feel toward Miss Sanders. Do you love her?"

Betcher's smile was broad.

"I will be equally frank with you, Miss Revelstoke," he said. "I do not love your secretary, and it is very unlikely that I should fall in love with her. She is not my type, and nothing is farther from my thoughts than matrimony."

"Then the gift of a ring was in the nature of a freakish impulse?" She shook her head slowly. "I cannot quite believe you. Indeed, I have a feeling that you are very fond of my little girl. Will you let me see the ring again?"

He took it from his pocket and passed it across to her, and, without warning of what she was going to do, she rose, walked to a safe in the farther wall, opened it, and, putting in the ring, shut the door quickly and turned the key.

"I think I had better keep this little trinket until you are better acquainted. Possibly Nora, who is a very young girl, will change her mind. It will not be necessary for me to notify you when her feelings are altered."

She rose and offered her cool hand.

"Good-night, Mr. Long, and good luck!"

There was nothing but admiration in his eyes when he took the hand in his.

"Going to Heartsease, Miss Revelstoke?" he asked, in his bantering tone "I shouldn't if I were you— I really shouldn't!"

She had a trick of smiling with her eyes, and though her lips did not move, he saw the evidence of her amusement.

"That is advice which I might very well pass on to you," she said.

Chapter 16

WHEN Betcher Long got back to his office at Scotland Yard, the man who had spent all that morning searching the records at Somerset House, and had supplied him with news that had taken his breath away, was now to supplement his information with facts that were even more startling. He gave some directions that sent his assistant hurrying to catch the Northern mail, and, going back to his flat in St. James's Street, found his trunk packed and strapped to the back of his car. He telephoned to Marlow, and learnt from Mr. Monkford's housekeeper that the banker had already left for Heartsease. It was his practice to arrive two days before the opening of the festival, and he had gone off in his car accompanied by "the gentleman who had been staying at the house," whose other name was Sergeant Rouch of the Criminal Investigation Department.

Betcher pulled on his gloves, turned up the collar of his mackintosh (it had been raining all afternoon), and took a last look round at his flat. And then he saw the letter on the table and called his servant.

"How long has this been here?" he asked.

"Just before you came, sir."

"Who brought it?"

But here the man could tell him nothing that was illuminating. He had found the envelope in the letter box and had put it on the table and forgotten all about it until Arnold Long drew attention to his omission.

The address was pencilled in an illiterate scrawl. The gum on the envelope was still wet when he pulled it open, and, taking out a dirty-looking sheet of paper, read:

Don't go to Heartsease.

Only those words. Betcher turned it over and over, placed it carefully in a drawer for future finger-print examination, and went out. The rain was pelting down; his chauffeur had pulled over the hood and was operating the screen-wiper when his employer appeared.

"I shan't want you, Marchant," he said.

"You won't want me, sir?" said the man, in surprise. "I thought you said—"

"Never mind that," said Betcher. "You've got a wife and family, haven't you?"

"Yes, sir," said the man.