“No. It isn’t mine. It’s a silver ring.”
“A silver—” There was a moment’s startled pause. “Did you hear the song just now?”
“Yes—Ah!” With the third match he had detected the ring. “Good!”
“Is it your ring?” asked the voice. “I mean . . . Evelyn . . . wears one, doesn’t she?”
“Does she?” Calderon asked drily. “She did.”
“Oh, she—”
“I found it on the moor. This is hers. I brought it—”
Calderon checked himself again. He was rubbing the ring with his handkerchief, in case it had been dirtied.
“How did you know we were here?” said the voice, in a tone of piquant curiosity.
“Then—!” cried Calderon, feeling his face get very hot. He could have shouted at this confirmation of his most rosy hopes. It was with a terrible effort that be restrained himself. “Oh,” he said vaguely, “one does know.” He heard a real laugh this time, but smothered, as though the unknown were holding a handkerchief to her mouth.