Whoever had found the ring was advertising the fact assiduously, for the loss was now a fortnight old. They might continue to advertise. The moment she got back to London she would go to the address given by Mr. Kirby and claim the ring. And perhaps on the way out to India she would drop it overboard. She wanted to forget. Whatever Sybil’s faults and weaknesses she was genuinely in love with Luke.
She crumpled the paper in her hand, managing to tear the advertisement. She would run no risk.
Luke looked up with a big yawn.
“Read the account of the wedding?” he asked. “They were going to Biarritz, weren’t they?”
“Yes,” said Sybil.
“Ah, well, I want all I can get out of old England. I don’t have too much of her. And now, little girl, how about bed?” He heaved himself out of his chair.
“By the way,” he said suddenly, “did you read the account of the exhibition of pictures at the Grafton Galleries? I see there’s a portrait exhibited there by a fellow named John Kirby.”
Sybil thought of the advertisement and her heart stood suddenly still, then began to race furiously, though she had no real notion why it was doing so.
“Do you know the man?” she asked carelessly.
“We were at school together,” said Luke. “I’ve seen him occasionally since then. He took up painting. I haven’t looked him up this time or let him know I was in England—don’t know why. If I’ve time I might look him up before I leave.”