Punctual as the clock, Mr. Arnold returned. It did not prejudice him in favour of the reporter of bad tidings, that he begged a word with him before dinner, when that was on the point of being served. It was, indeed, exceeding impolitic; but Hugh would have felt like an impostor, had he sat down to the table before making his confession.
“Mr. Arnold, I am sorry to say I have been robbed, and in your house, too.”
“In my house? Of what, pray, Mr. Sutherland?”
Mr. Arnold had taken the information as some weak men take any kind of information referring to themselves or their belongings—namely, as an insult. He drew himself up, and lowered portentously.
“Of your ring, Mr. Arnold.”
“Of—my—ring?”
And he looked at his ring-finger, as if he could not understand the import of Hugh’s words.
“Of the ring you lent me to decipher,” explained Hugh.
“Do you suppose I do not understand you, Mr. Sutherland? A ring which has been in the family for two hundred years at least! Robbed of it? In my house? You must have been disgracefully careless, Mr. Sutherland. You have lost it.”
“Mr. Arnold,” said Hugh, with dignity, “I am above using such a subterfuge, even if it were not certain to throw suspicion where it was undeserved.”