Dr. Moran slowly put on his glasses, and examined the ornament as critically as Belle had done.
“Do you know what this writing means, young lady?” he asked presently, looking keenly over his spectacles.
“No, I was not even sure that it was writing.”
“It is one word in Urdu letters.”
“Can you make it out?”
“Yes—easily enough, and if the bangle was given to you by a young man, it means a great deal. This word ‘Tumhara,’ interpreted into English, is simply ‘Thine alone.’”
Miss Dopping—who knew the donor of the bangle—coughed sharply, and glanced at Betty, with an extraordinary amount of expression in her little beady eyes.
She even so far forgot herself as to wink, and Betty coloured to the roots of her hair. She had been a wee bit envious of all those foreign envelopes with green stamps; not that she did not trust George with all her heart, and he had said that he would not write. Still, there had been a curious, uneasy, unsatisfactory sensation, that, if not exactly jealousy, was jealousy’s first cousin, and now, after all, her precious gold bangle and its message was worth a thousand of Belle’s letters.
“So that’s the way of it,” exclaimed Miss Dopping after Betty had left, “and I am glad of it,” for she knew George well, and he was one of her prime favourites, with his handsome face and pleasant manners. Many a time she had rapped for him, from her window, and many a visit he had paid her, and now she came to think of it, he always drew the conversation round to Betty. “I knew she wouldn’t look at Ghosty Moore,” she added triumphantly.
“And why not?” said Dr. Moran incredulously. “Holroyd is only a sub-altern in a marching regiment, with a mother and sister to support, whilst Ghosty Moore is an eldest son, and heir to a splendid property—I only hope she may never do worse.”