“I am sure he is innocent, and will return to explain everything,” said Marie obstinately. “Nothing will ever make me believe that Uncle Ran killed the poor thing. We won’t think anything more about the matter until he comes back,” she ended, and returned the stiletto to the hiding-place.
“If he ever does come back,” murmured Alan under his breath, for he looked on the presence of the weapon—and stained with blood as it was—as a very good proof of the man’s guilt. However, so as not to vex Marie, and because he could not, in legal words, prove his case, he made no remark. For the next quarter of an hour they examined the gems, and, becoming absorbed in this one and that, (so beautiful were the objects), both quite forgot the discovery of the stiletto which seemed to incriminate the collector.
Marie tried the effect of several jewels against her fair skin and admired herself in the mirror over the fireplace. Amongst the loose ornaments—for some of the gems were set in gold—she found a curious ring of silver entirely circled by precious stones. “Isn’t that odd, Alan,” she asked, slipping it on her finger, “and how uncomfortable to wear, dear. The stones go right round and hurt one so between the fingers. Oh!” she pulled it off, “I could never wear that with pleasure. Perhaps it is a nose ring—one of the Begum’s treasures.”
Fuller examined the object, which was a broad band of silver set with gems at various intervals, entirely round its circle. “It’s not of Indian workmanship, Marie,” he said, after a pause; “there’s an English look about it. I wonder why the stones are set all round it, though?”
Marie peering over his shoulder pointed out a point that had escaped Alan’s attention. “See, there is a letter,” she observed, “it’s a ‘K.’ Look, Alan, between that bit of coral and that pearl.”
“So there is. I wonder what ‘K’ means,” Alan mused, then threw back his head trying to remember something. “I have heard of a ring set round with stones before,” he said thoughtfully, “and it was explained to me why the gems were all over it. Who has that ring? Oh!”—a memory suddenly came into his mind——“it was my grandmother who showed it to me when I was a tiny boy. It was a golden ring with six stones, and each meant a letter.”
“How do you mean meant a letter, dear?” asked Marie, greatly puzzled, “and what word did it make?”
“Regard,” answered Alan carelessly, “the first word of each stone-name gave the meaning: Ruby, emerald, garnet, amethyst, ruby again, and diamond.”
“Regard,” repeated Marie, clapping her hands. “Oh, how clever. You must give me a ring like that some day, Alan. Only we’ll have love on it. Lapis lazuli, opal, and—and—what precious stone begins with ‘V,’ Alan?”
“There is none,” he said smiling at her earnestness, and glancing at the silver ring he still toyed with, “no more than there is a gem beginning with ‘K.’ I expect the maker of this ring chose a word which contained that letter, and as he could not suggest a stone, engraved the word on the silver in this fashion. Strange that he had not more foresight.”