"I think you are making a mistake, Briarfield," said I coldly; "your brother Francis slept at the Fen Inn last night."
"I slept in this house."
"I quite believe that. But you are Felix!"
"Oh!" said Briarfield, bursting into a harsh laugh. "I see you are making the inevitable mistake of mixing me up with my brother. It is pardonable under the circumstances, otherwise I might resent your plain speaking."
The assurance of the man was so complete that I wondered if he knew that his secret was safe by the death of his brother. Such knowledge would account for his complacency. Yet it was quite impossible that he could know of the death, as he certainly had not been to the inn. I knew that from my own knowledge.
"If you are Francis," said I slowly, "you are engaged to Miss Bellin."
"I am," he answered haughtily, "but by what right you----"
"One moment, Mr. Briarfield. Miss Bellin gave her lover Francis a pearl ring. I do not see it on your finger."
He glanced down at his hand and grew confused.
"I lost it," he muttered, "I lost it some time ago."