“Oh, that’s all right!” replied Mrs. Tretheroe, complacently. “Rather interesting, after all; I suppose you do get a lot of interest in your work, don’t you? You ought to,” she added, giving her visitor a direct glance out of her half-shut eyes. “You’re so very young—a mere boy, I should think!”
“Not quite such a chicken as I look!” retorted Blick, with a laugh. “I’ve had twelve years of it. But now—business! I’m sure you won’t mind if I ask you one or two personal questions, Mrs. Tretheroe? Well, first—I see that on the third finger of your right hand, you wear a somewhat curious ring.”
“This!” answered Mrs. Tretheroe. “You may look at it.” She stretched out her hand and laid it, a very slim and shapely member, in Blick’s palm. “Odd, isn’t it?” she added, as, after a moment, during which she turned her hand over, she withdrew it. “Unusual!”
“It’s a very uncommon sort of thing, I should think,” replied Blick. “Now, do you know if the late Mr. Guy Markenmore had a ring like that?”
“Of course he had!” she answered. “It was he who bought both rings—years ago. He and I were once together in Portsmouth, and in one of those queer old curiosity shops that you find in those sort of places, we saw these two rings. He bought them, for a pound or two, and we agreed to wear them for ever. Poor Guy!”
“Was he wearing that ring when you saw him the other night?” asked Blick.
“He was! He told me he’d never ceased to wear it—and I assured him that I’d always worn mine.”
“He had it on his finger when he left you?”
“Certainly he had!”
“Well—it wasn’t there when he was found next morning,” said Blick. “That’s a fact!”