The two men glared at each other with their faces close together, Mr Burton meeting the Flyman's threatening glances without flinching. He turned to Mr Cox.
'Cox, what he's got on his finger is no more my uncle's ring than I am.'
'Dead certain. The stone in my uncle's ring was much larger, better colour, finer altogether. It bore his crest--on that thing there seems to be a monogram--and inside the gold mount, at the back, his name was engraved--"George Burton."'
'We can soon settle that part of the question. Flyman, is there a name inside that ring?'
The Flyman was already looking for himself.
'There's not; there's no name. Is this a plant between you two to do me out of my fair due?'
'Don't you make any mistake about that, my man. If that's the ring we want you shall have your thousand right enough. It's worth all that to us. If it's not, then it's worth nothing, and less than nothing. Don't let's have any error about this, Burton. You're quite sure that you recollect what your uncle's ring was like?'
'I'd pick it out among ten thousand. I've seen it hundreds--I should think, thousands--of times. I wore it myself for a year. It used to amuse the old man to fool about with it, lending it to all sorts of people. He lent it to me, and he lent it to Guy. I believe he lent it to Miss Bewicke; and it was because, when he asked her, she wouldn't give it him back again that he got his back up.'
'I suppose, Flyman, it was Mr Holland you tackled?'
'It was the bloke you pointed out to me this afternoon--that I do know. Here, I borrowed these things from off him--took them out of his pockets.' He produced a miscellaneous collection. 'Here's a cigar-case with initials on it, "G. H.," and cards inside with a name on them, "Mr Guy Holland." I should think that that ought to be about good enough.'
'You're sure that that was the only ring he had about him?'
'I'll swear to it. I ran the rule over him quite half a dozen times. He only had one ring--there wasn't one upon his hands--and that's it.'
'And you, Burton, are certain it's not your uncle's?'
Miss Broad had a very bad night. That was because of her conscience, which pricked her. Almost as soon as Mr Holland had left her she regretted the advice she had given him--advice, she had the candour to admit, as applied to this case, being but a feeble word. She had bullied him into committing burglary! It was awful to think of, or, at least, it became awful by degrees. A sort of panorama of dreadful imaginings began to unfold itself in front of her. She even pictured him as being caught in the act, arrested, thrown into gaol, tried, sentenced to penal servitude, working in the quarries--she had heard of 'the quarries'--because of her. She did not pause to consider that, after all, he was responsible for his own actions. He loved her; by obedience he proved it, even to the extent of committing burglary. Therefore, the blame of what she did was on her shoulders.