"That may be just a coincidence. It was a copy of a well-known form of antique ring. Other people may have had copies made as well as your uncle. Besides," I added, with more conviction, "we haven't seen the ring. It may not be his at all."
She shook her head. "My dear Paul," she said quietly, "it is useless to delude ourselves. Every known fact points to the certainty that it is his body. John Bellingham is dead: there can be no doubt of that. And to everyone except his unknown murderer and one or two of my own loyal friends, it must seem that his death lies at my door. I realised from the beginning that the suspicion lay between George Hurst and me; and the finding of the ring fixes it definitely on me. I am only surprised that the police have made no move yet."
The quiet conviction of her tone left me for a while speechless with horror and despair. Then I recalled Thorndyke's calm, even confident attitude, and I hastened to remind her of it.
"There is one of your friends," I said, "who is still undismayed. Thorndyke seems to anticipate no difficulties."
"And yet," she replied, "he is ready to consider a forlorn hope like this. However, we shall see."
I could think of nothing more to say, and it was in gloomy silence that we pursued our way down Inner Temple Lane and through the dark entries and tunnel-like passages that brought us out, at length, by the Treasury.
"I don't see any light in Thorndyke's chambers," I said, as we crossed King's Bench Walk; and I pointed out the row of windows all dark and blank.
"No: and yet the shutters are not closed. He must be out."
"He can't be after making an appointment with you and your father. It is most mysterious. Thorndyke is so very punctilious about his engagements."
The mystery was solved, when we reached the landing, by a slip of paper fixed by a tack on the iron-bound "oak."