Mr. Fox pressed his advantage.
“And when you rose from the lounge and crossed your sister’s hands?”
“It was still there; I put that hand uppermost.”
“And left the ring on?”
“Oh, yes—oh, yes.” Her whole attitude and face were full of protest.
“So that, to the best of your belief, it was still on your sister’s finger when you left the room?”
“Certainly, sir, certainly.”
There was alarm in her tone now, she was beginning to see that her testimony was not as entirely helpful to Arthur as she had been led to expect. In her helplessness, she cast a glance of entreaty at her brother’s counsel. But he was busily occupied with pencil and paper, and she received no encouragement unless it was from his studiously composed manner and general air of unconcern. She did not know—nor did I know then—what uneasiness such an air may cover.
Mr. Fox had followed her glances, and perhaps understood his adversary better than she did; for he drew himself up with an appearance of satisfaction as he asked very quietly:
“What material did you use in lighting the fire on the club-house hearth?”