“Haven’t I told you I’m going to give you half of what I get?”
“I don’t want to sell it,” sobbed the girl. “I got reasons. You wouldn’t understand—you wouldn’t understand anything to do with sentiment. You was born without a heart, Michael Wagstaffe. When young Thomas Felix Waite loved me he promised me that he’d get that diamond-ring from his mother and give it to me. I didn’t want it then, nor believe him, but he went on so about it that I came to fix my mind on it. And then one day he left me—just like that, without a word. He was a weak idiot, but I loved him—you wouldn’t understand. And when he left me my mind somehow ran on that diamond-ring he’d promised me—I wanted it, d’you see, as I might want some money that’s owing to me. God’s treated me pretty rough, I thought, and so He owes me that diamond-ring just so as I can look at it now and then. And I been thinking about it months and months, not thinking to steal it, you know, but just wanting it. You wouldn’t understand how soft a girl gets when she’s eaten up with loneliness in a big place like London. Why didn’t you let me be at Oxford, Michael, living with my father? And so when I saw this garden-party billed in the Society columns this morning, I just thought I’d try to get in and have a look at the diamond on her hand. I never thought she’d be fool enough to take it off in that catch-as-catch-can crowd to show to a friend, and then lay it on the edge of the fight-for-a-cup-of-tea-table to grab a cake which she could have done well without, she being already so fat with over-feeding....” And for the first time she looked up at the young man, who stood above her absently playing with the glittering toy in his hand. She stared at him with babyish, unbelieving eyes. “Gawd, you’re a bad kind of man, Michael Wagstaffe. You’re very bad.”
“You don’t want to sell it, then?” he asked sardonically.
“I want the diamond—my diamond!” she whispered. “Give me back my diamond-ring, Michael Wagstaffe. It’ll do for the sun you’ve took from me since we met at Oxford....”
He smiled at her suddenly. “Here you are, pretty Betty,” he said, and held out the diamond.
But Betty was afraid; she didn’t believe the beau geste. Few beaux gestes had come pretty Betty’s way. “Don’t play with me,” she whispered.
“Go on, take the damn thing. I’ll swim the Channel.” There was no doubt about it now. She stretched out her hand to his, to the glittering thing in his palm; but her hand never reached the glittering thing. He followed her staring, terrified eyes to the door behind him.
“Evening, Mr. Wagstaffe,” said the plain-clothes man with a grin; and he fixed a delighted eye on the glittering thing in the palm of Mr. Wagstaffe’s hand. “How’s business with diamonds to-night?”
“Rotten,” said Mr. Wagstaffe slowly. “Girl’s afraid even to touch it.”
The plain-clothes man was delighted with himself; he didn’t hurry; he turned to the two constables who filled the doorway behind him. “See, boys! There’s not a thief in the world who won’t take a stolen jool to show off to his best girl. That’s why I’ve kept you chasing this smart young man all evening—I knew he had it, but I wanted to catch him in flagrante delicto, which is Latin for making a fool of himself.” He possessed himself of the ring from the young man’s hand. “Sorry to have disturbed you, miss. I didn’t like doing it, but he was such a long time in here, and he’s given us the go-by so often, that I thought I’d come up and fetch him, as he and I are going the same way home to-night. Come on, Mr. Wagstaffe.”