“Perhaps he has,” whispered Mrs. Travers, as if to herself. “And you want that ring to be taken to him?” she asked, in a louder tone.
“Yes. At once. For his good.”
“Are you certain it is for his good? Why can't you. . . .”
She checked herself. That man was hopeless. He would never tell anything and there was no means of compelling him. He was invulnerable, unapproachable. . . . He was dead.
“Just give it to him,” mumbled Jorgenson as though pursuing a mere fixed idea. “Just slip it quietly into his hand. He will understand.”
“What is it? Advice, warning, signal for action?”
“It may be anything,” uttered Jorgenson, morosely, but as it were in a mollified tone. “It's meant for his good.”
“Oh, if I only could trust that man!” mused Mrs. Travers, half aloud.
Jorgenson's slight noise in the throat might have been taken for an expression of sympathy. But he remained silent.
“Really, this is most extraordinary!” cried Mrs. Travers, suddenly aroused. “Why did you come to me? Why should it be my task? Why should you want me specially to take it to him?”