"I agreed to bring you this letter from Mrs. Effingham," Morton answered, defiantly, "and your engagement-ring from"—

"Well? You have brought it?"

"I have."

Drummond recoiled a step, casting out his hand behind him and grasping the table for support.

"Great God!" burst from his tensely drawn lips; "I—I"—

"You recognize the ring?"

Morton had slipped the circlet from his finger and held it before Drummond's eyes, twinkling in the lamp-light.

"This is some jugglery!" gasped the wretched man; "some infernal witchcraft! I—I refuse to"—

"This is your ring!"

A pause of awful import ensued, broken only by the weird hubbubboo of the owls.