'What d'ye mean?'
'It's not my uncle's ring.' The fall, or something, had sobered him. He had become disagreeable instead. He snarled, showing his teeth to the gums, as if he would have liked to assail the man in front of him with tooth and nail. 'Curse you, Flyman! what's the game you're playing?'
'What's the game you think you're playing, that's what I want to know?'
'That's not my uncle's ring, and you know it's not. Come, out with it! no tricks here!'
'This is your uncle's ring, and you're trying to kid me that it isn't, thinking to do me out of what you promised. Don't you try that on, Mr Burton, or you'll be sorry.'
The two men glared at each other with their faces close together, Mr Burton meeting the Flyman's threatening glances without flinching. He turned to Mr Cox.
'Cox, what he's got on his finger is no more my uncle's ring than I am.'
'You're sure of that?'
'Dead certain. The stone in my uncle's ring was much larger, better colour, finer altogether. It bore his crest--on that thing there seems to be a monogram--and inside the gold mount, at the back, his name was engraved--"George Burton."'
'We can soon settle that part of the question. Flyman, is there a name inside that ring?'