Sir Charles led her to a seat beneath a spreading palm tree, then excusing himself, he went to get her an ice.
She had danced a great deal, and was tired and heated.
With a sigh of content, she leaned back in her seat, and drew off her gloves.
Upon the forefinger of her left hand there gleamed Miss Mehetabel’s engagement ring, its central pearl surrounded with its six pure brilliants.
She had been determined to make the most of her opportunity that evening, fearing she would never have another, and while putting on the other jewels, this had caught her fancy, and she had slipped it upon her finger.
Sir Charles was detained longer than he had intended to be gone, and while she sat there silently thinking, her hand carelessly resting upon the back of the seat, she was suddenly startled by having it seized by some one behind her, in a grip of iron, while a voice, hoarse with suppressed feeling, said:
“Where did you get this? Young woman, where did you get this ring?”
She started to her feet, and turning quickly, found herself face to face with that white-haired, stately looking man whom but a few moments before she had inquired about—Lord Dunforth!
To say that she was startled is to say the very least, for the man’s face was as white as his hair, his eyes dilated and fixed upon the ring, his lips set and livid, while the hand which grasped hers shook as if he had been stricken with the palsy.
“Where did you get it?” he demanded again, this time somewhat impatiently.