Molineux’s face hardened. He brought his jaws together; a glimmer like that of steel leaped into his misty eyes; but that was all. He answered the question quietly enough, but it was evident that the introduction of his wife’s name touched him on the raw. All that was chivalrous in him came to the surface. And in spite of the fact that he was rusted in prison for four years, there is still a deal of chivalry in him.
He admitted that Barnet had paid many attentions to Miss Cheeseborough in the days before he and she had become betrothed. It was another indirect way of getting Barnet into the case and of insinuating a motive for murder.
“Did you give your wife an engagement ring?” the Assistant District Attorney asked.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“I should like to explain that, Mr. Osborne.”
“I am not trying to entrap you, Mr. Molineux,” said the prosecutor, sweetly, “but suppose you answer my question. Wasn’t that ring bought November 18, 1898—one week after Barnet died?”
“There were two rings,” said Molineux.
Then he told the story of the ring. It was a strange romance to listen to in the stifling home of crime. It was like a lily blooming in a pesthouse. As Molineux told it his voice softened into wonderful tenderness. He did not look at Osborne. He did not seem to see the jury or the crowded, morbid court-room. He was living again the days of love.
“There were two rings,” he repeated. “One was a mizpah ring—like this one,” and he drew the ring from his finger. “My mother gave this ring to me long ago. I have always worn it. Miss Cheeseborough admired it, and I gave her one like it for a Christmas present. Then, when we became engaged, she said that should be her engagement ring—she would have no other. But when we came to arrange for our wedding she decided that the mizpah ring should be our wedding ring. It was sentiment,” he added; “it was her wish. And so I bought the second ring, of which Mr. Osborne has just spoken.”