"You are quite, quite wrong!" cried Mrs. Durand, excitedly. "Now you have said your say, it is my turn to speak; and speak I will," she added with a gleam of determination in her eye.
"Oh, certainly!" returned her listener, with rather dry politeness.
"Helen was, and is, a particular friend of mine, and I happen to know that she could not endure Apollo Quentin! She did not even think him good-looking! and he bored her to death. He stuck to her like burr, and she could not shake him off. She would ten times rather have talked to Captain Rodney, or Mr. Green,—or even to you! She was no more engaged to him than I was. She never gave him that ring."—Here her listener stirred, and made a gesture of impatient protestation.—"That ring was stolen, and sold for twenty rupees," concluded Mrs. Durand, in her most forcible manner.
"Stolen—sold!" he echoed, turning towards her so suddenly that it made her start. "Is this true?"
"True?" she repeated indignantly.
"I do not mean to doubt you for one second; but you may have been deceived."
"At any rate, I had the benefit of my own eyes and ears. They do not often mislead me."
"Then how——"
"If you will only have patience you shall hear all. Helen stayed with me for the last week at Port Blair; and the night before she sailed, when I went into her room I discovered Fatima grovelling on the ground at her feet, and holding the hem of her dress, and whining,—'A—ma! A—ma!' in true native fashion. 'I very bad woman, Missy,' she was saying; 'and I very sorry now. I stealing jewels—why for I sent here? And now I done take, Missy's ring and sell for twenty rupees.'"
"Sold it! To whom?" interrupted Mr. Lisle, his dark face flushing to his temples.