The man had been leaning forward in his chair, one hand, palm downward, resting lightly on the desk. He shifted his hand now suddenly to the arm of his chair.
“THIS!” he said, and on the desk where his hand had been lay the Tocsin's gold signet ring.
Jimmie Dale's face expressed mild curiosity. He could feel the other's eyes boring into him.
“We were speaking of ownership,” said the man, in a low, menacing tone. “I want to know where the woman who owns this ring can be found to-night.”
There was no play, no trifling here; the man was in deadly earnest. But it seemed to Jimmie Dale, even with the sense of peril more imminent with every instant, that he could have laughed outright in savage mockery at the irony of the question. Where was she? Even WHO was she? And this was the hour in which he was to have known!
“May I look at it?” he requested calmly.
The other nodded, but his eyes never left Jimmie Dale.
“It will give you an extra moment or so to frame your answer,” he said sarcastically.
Jimmie Dale ignored the thrust, picked up the ring, examined it deliberately, and set it back again on the table.
“Since I do not know who owns it,” he said, “I cannot answer your question.”