"Well, that was more or less his idea. The trouble was he hadn't got a knife—he wasn't a sailor; but he had been the next best thing for the purpose—a dog-fancier."
"I thought you said he had been a burglar?" interposed Jane severely. Consistency in details she invariably insisted upon when told a story.
"Oh," gasped Miss Mayne, as the significance of the gardener's former pursuit suddenly became plain, "you surely don't mean——"
"He was in a hurry. P'raps the job was getting on his nerves after all. He started in, and when he was half-way through the lady sat up. She wasn't dead—only in a trance."
"What did the gardener do?" asked Cornelius James feverishly.
"At the time he ran away," replied Mouldy in sepulchral tones, "but later on he repented and joined the Church."
"And the lady lived happily ever afterwards?" insisted Jane the punctilious.
"Certainly," said Mouldy. "And now, before we have tea, I'll show you all the ring." He ran up the stairway at the end of the gallery and returned a few minutes later with a little casket.
"It is supposed to bring luck to any woman who slips it on her wedding finger," said the host, opening the lid and taking out a heavy plain ring.
"Let me put it on," said Georgina. She extended a slim sunburnt paw, and Mouldy gravely slipped it on the third finger of her left hand.