“Certainly.” She drew it off with some nervousness, gave it to him, and, as he looked, watched him and it alternately with vague anxiety.
“A very old, a very quaint setting,” he said, “and a fine——”
He paused; her mouth was dry and her skin hot.
“A fine stone—a beautiful stone,” he continued. “One of the finest I ever saw. The flaw is slight.”
Elsie drew a long breath—she felt an unaccountable sense of relief. The manager took his glass, went to the window, and studied the stone and the setting. “I’m glad to hear you say the stone’s genuine,” said she, now admitting to herself that Madame Almansa’s poison had been lurking far down in her mind. “Someone doubted it, and as it was important to me to know, I intended to ask you.”
“In that case,” said the manager, “I feel it’s my duty to tell you the stone’s an imitation.”
Elsie grew rigid and cold from amazement and rising horror.
“A good imitation,” continued the manager, intent upon the stone, “but unquestionably not genuine. The setting makes it additionally deceptive.”
“How much is the ring worth?” she asked, gathering herself together heroically.
“Well—the stone, of course, is worthless—a few dollars. But the setting is old and quite beautiful. It might bring a hundred or so from a collector if it hit his fancy and had an authentic history. If the stone were genuine, the ring would be worth about—five thousand, I should say, as a rough guess.”