“Give it to Charlotte,” he said. “It won't hurt her. Don't touch it yourself. Had I only known. Watson didn't know—”
He straightened; he was tense, rigid, listening.
“Do you hear anything? Listen! Can you hear? It's the old lady. There—”
But there was not a sound; only the rumble of the streets, the ticking of the clock, and our heart-beats. Again he went through the counting.
“Hobart!”
“Yes, Harry.”
“And Charlotte! The ring—ah, yet it was there, Keep it. Give it to no one. Two hours ago we might have conquered. But I had to keep the ring. It was too much, too powerful; a man may not wear it. Charlotte”—he took my hand and ran the ring upon my finger. “Poor Charlotte. Here is the ring. The most wonderful—”
Again he dropped over. He was weak—there was something going from him minute by minute.
“Water,” he asked. “Hobart, some water.”
It was too pitiful. Harry, our Harry—come to a strait like this! Hobart rushed to another room with the tumbler. I could hear him fumbling. I stooped over Harry. But he held up his hand.