Fifteen years ago I bought a scarab-ring in Luxor. After losing it once a day for a fortnight, I had it fitted with ingenious couplings so designed that when I caught it in a glove the couplings drew tight and clamped the ring to the finger. When last I found myself in Egypt, my Arab goldsmith had been gathered to his fathers, and the secret of those couplings is vested in myself. Three London and two Parisian jewellers have told me they could unravel the mystery by cutting the ring to pieces. Short of that, they confessed themselves baffled.
"Hold out your hand, Joyce," I said. "No, the other one. There!"
I slipped the ring on to her third finger, stepped back to the table, and lit a cigarette. This last was purely for effect.
Joyce looked at the ring and tried to move it.
"No good," I said. "You may cut the ring, which would be a pity because it's unique; and it's not yours till you've won the wager. Or you may amputate the finger, which also would be a pity, as that too ... well, anyway, it won't be yours to amputate if I win the bet."
Again she tried to move the ring, again without success.
"Will you take it off, please?"
I shook my head.
"You said I might fix the wager."
"Take it off, please!" she repeated, frowning disapproval upon me. Unfortunately, like Mrs. Hilary Musgrave, she looks uncommonly well when she disapproves.