Lawrence did not lift his eyes from the tray.
"I think it rather good myself," he admitted.
His tone was intended to quell this unwelcome display of interest, but it quite failed of its effect.
"I have never seen anything like it before," the salesman went on rapidly. "Would you mind if I—looked at it more closely?"
Barry glanced up with a faint frown, alert for the hidden meaning in the man's words. What he saw reassured him. The wide brow, the vibrant, tapering fingers—above all, the soft brown eyes, shining with enthusiastic interest—all pointed toward an expert in his line, to whom a thing of beauty was a source of joy, no matter where he found it.
Without a word, Lawrence extended his hand, and the salesman bent over it, his eyes devouring the ring.
"Extraordinary!" he murmured, half to himself. "The stone is perfect, and worth a small fortune, but the workmanship is even more unusual." He sighed a little, and went on in a rapt tone: "Eastern, of course. Probably Indian, but not the stuff they make there now. I should place it in the reign of Shah Jahan, the golden age of Delhi—over three hundred years ago. But of course you know all this. I must beg your pardon for letting my interest get the better of me."
"You needn't," Barry returned. "I am very glad to know what you have told me. The former owner of the ring gave me little or no information of its history."
Having, concluded his purchases, to which he added a silver cigarette case, he continued his walk up the avenue in a rather thoughtful mood.
So the ring had come from India! Still, that proved nothing. He could not picture the little man in black having anything to do with that country, and it did not really follow that he had. No doubt the emerald had passed through numberless hands since leaving the loving fingers of its creator.