“Well, I don’t!” admitted Calderon. “And that’s quite true.”
“Honest man!” said the voice. Something made him move forward quickly. The figure disappeared. Calderon, putting his hand instinctively forward to stop her, allowed the little ring to jerk from it.
“Oh!” he cried. “Here, I say!”
He was down upon his knees, fumbling on the ground. A match flickered on his fingers. He looked quickly up, hoping to see the unknown’s face; but the match was blown out instantly by the strong wind that was pressing and fluttering about him as he knelt.
“What have you dropped?” asked the voice. The mysterious one had reappeared in the doorway.
“A ring!” Calderon said sharply.
“A ring!” There was sympathy in the voice. “What a pity! Let me look.”
He struck another match, and groped about. It was unavailing. The match went out, and beyond a sudden glimpse of the trodden earth he had seen nothing.
“It’s really your fault,” Calderon said to the unknown, “for starting away.”
“Was it on your finger?”