The moment she spoke I perceived that she was not French. She was an English or an Irish woman, probably the latter. Her name was doubtless an assumed one. I did not take the chair she proffered me.
“I have come for my ring,” I said, in a voice which I really managed to make very firm and business-like. “I brought it to you last night, and you very kindly paid me five pounds for the loan of it. I want it back now. Your servant said that if I called at twelve o’clock I should have the ring back.”
“I wish you would take a chair, Miss Lindley; I want particularly to speak to you about the ring. I am pleased to be able to impart to you some good news. I—” Madame Leroy paused, and slightly smacked her lips. “I have found a purchaser for your ruby ring, Miss Lindley.”
I felt my cheeks turning very red.
“You are kind,” I replied; “I dare say you mean to be good to me when you say you have a purchaser for the ring. But I don’t want to sell it.”
“Not want to sell it!” Madame Leroy looked me all over from the crown of my hat to the tips of my shabby boots. Then putting on her pince-nez she scrutinised my face. I knew perfectly well the thoughts that were filling her mind. She was saying to herself:—“You are a poor specimen of humanity, but if I, the great artiste, had the dressing of you, I might make you at least presentable. The idea of a chit like you presuming to refuse to sell a trinket!”
“I don’t want to sell my ring,” I said. “But it is possible that I may lend it to you another evening. Even that I am not sure about. Give it back to me now, please.”
I held out my hand. Madame Leroy drew back.
“I am very sorry,” she said, reddening; “the fact is, I have not got the ring.”
“Not got my ring?”