“You are out of my dreams,” I answered: “it is sufficient. But who are you?”
She held back her pretty head and looked at me; her lips drooped slightly at the corners, a sad smile, and tender, in the soft wonderful depths of her eyes—a pity.
“Harry,” she asked, “are you going to wear this ring?”
So that was it. The ring and the maiden. What was the bond? There was weirdness in its colour, almost cabalistic—a call out of the occult. The strange beauty of the girl, her remarkable presence, and her concern. Whoever and whatever she was her anxiety was not personal. In some way she was woven up with this ring and poor Watson.
“I think I shall,” I answered.
Again the strange querulous pity and hesitation; her eyes grew darker, almost pleading.
“You won't give it to me?”
How near I came to doing it I shall not tell. It would be hard to say it. I knew vaguely that she was playing; that I was the plaything. It is hard for a man to think of himself as being toyed with. She was certain; she was confident of my weakness. It was resentment, perhaps, and pride of self that gave the answer.
“I think I shall keep it.”
“Do you know the danger, Harry? It is death to wear it. A thousand perils—”