“You had better take yourself off bodily, my worthy friend; there's no saying who might chance to come in upon us here. Is not that a signet-ring on his finger? It would only be a proper attention to carry it to his mother, Driscoll.” There was a half-sarcasm about the tone of this speech that made it sound strangely ambiguous, as, stooping down, he proceeded to take off the ring.
“Leave it there,—leave it there! it will bring bad luck upon us,” murmured Driscoll, in terror.
“There is no such bad luck as not to profit by an opportunity,” whispered Classon, as he tried, but in vain, to withdraw the ring. A sharp, half-suppressed cry suddenly escaped him, and Driscoll exclaimed,—
“What is it? What's the matter?”
“Look, and see if he has n't got hold of me, and tightly too.”
The affected jocularity of his tone accorded but ill with the expression of pain and fright so written upon his features, for the dying man had grasped him by the wrist, and held him with a grip of iron.
“That's what they call a dead man's grip, I suppose?” said Classon, in assumed mockery. “Just try if you cannot unclasp his fingers.”
“I wouldn't touch him if you offered me a thousand guineas for it,” said Driscoll, shuddering.
“Nonsense, man. We cannot stand fooling here, and I shall only hurt him if I try it with one hand. Come, open his fingers gently. Be quick. I hear voices without, and the tramp of horses' feet in the court below. Where are you going? You're not about to leave me here?”
“May I never! if I know what to do,” muttered Driscoll, in a voice of despair. “And did n't I tell you from the first it would bring bad luck upon us?”