“Yes,” curtly and emphatically replied Wentworth.
Clifford was tempted to tell him that it was none of his business, but refraining from so discourteous a retort, he quietly returned:
“It was given to me.”
“Who gave it to you?” and Wentworth’s lips twitched nervously as he put the question, while there was a savage gleam of jealous anger in his eyes.
Clifford’s ire began to get the better of him now.
“Pardon me,” he said coldly, “if I tell you that is a matter which cannot concern you in the least.”
“Don’t be so sure, young man; it does concern me, and far more, perhaps, than you have any idea of,” was the excited retort. “I could swear that that is the only ring of its kind in the world, and I should recognize it if I should see it in China.”
“Possibly you may be correct, Mr. Wentworth, ‘that it is the only ring of its kind in existence,’” calmly observed our hero. “I should not be surprised if such were the case, for the carving is peculiarly fine, the subject a rare and difficult one. Nevertheless, it was a gift to me, and is one that I prize very highly.”
“It can’t be possible!” cried Philip hotly, “that ring belongs to a young lady who is now traveling in Europe.”
“You are mistaken, Mr. Wentworth,” said Clifford with quiet emphasis.