A clerk announced through a speaking-tube that someone wanted the banker. The conventional, "Ask him to wait one minute," warned Power that this was no hour for gossip.
"I can have some money now?" he inquired.
"May I ask--I am a child in these matters--if good diamonds are obtainable in New York, and what I ought to pay for a ring--an engagement ring?"
"Our diamonds are not cheap; but they are supposed to be the pick of the market. I think you ought to get a perfect ring for a thousand dollars. By the way, there is quite an accumulation of letters here. Leave your address, and they will be packed and sent to your rooms."
Power wrote a check at the counter, and was given a bundle of notes. He went to a well-known jewelry establishment recommended by the bank manager, and asked to be shown some engagement rings.
"Oh, not anything remarkable, but of the best quality."
"I mean, sir, what size is the lady's finger?"
Power laughed. He realized that he must come down out of the clouds, and pay heed occasionally to the minor phases of life.
"I don't know. She has small hands, and, long, tapering fingers," he said, smiling at his own fatuity; for the description might have been a line taken bodily out of nineteen novels among every twenty.
"It really doesn't matter, sir," said the shopman, eager to please a new customer. "If you choose a suitable ring, the lady can send or bring it here, and it will be adjusted to the right size without any delay or extra charge."
"Exactly the same conditions apply in our London branch."
So Power bought a very beautiful ring, which happened to contain seven graduated stones in a single row. The number pleased him, and he was sure Meg would note its significance. He secured the gage thus early so that he might write and tell her about it; while its mere possession and safeguarding would supply an extra stimulus for a speedy crossing of the Atlantic.
Then he strolled up Fifth Avenue, and did not flinch from memories of the last time he had passed through that remarkable thoroughfare. He would be callous, indeed, if his thoughts did not dwell on Nancy, and go back to the sweet lawlessness of their brief companionship. Where was she now? he wondered. A fine lady, no doubt, ruffling it with matronly self-possession among the high-born friends she had won in Paris and London. And that mean-spirited wretch, her father? Dead, in all probability, or eating his heart out in semi-insanity; for Power was beginning to see, with surer, wider vision, that Willard must have known he was a murderer, since no other hand but his had sent a dear and honored woman to her grave.