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Updated: July 5, 2025
It made a stir among them all; but if Kerr looked sharp, Clara looked sharper. She looked at Harry and Harry was vexed. "Who's Crew?" said Ella; and the judge looked around on the silence. "Why, bless my soul, isn't it Oh, anyway, it will all be out to-morrow. But I thought Harry'd told you. The Chatworth ring wasn't Bessie's."
Then, turning slow eyes to Flora, "How did he come by this?" he asked, as sternly as if he demanded it of the mystery itself. "He had it, from the very first." The pieces of the puzzle were flashing together in Flora's mind. "That first time Harry left the exhibit he took it there." "But the blue sapphire?" Chatworth insisted. "Harry," Flora whispered, "Harry gave it up to him."
She looked at him with a delighted alarm, with an increasing elation; but whether these arose from his lawless declarations and the singular way they kept setting before her more vividly moment by moment the possible character of the present keeper of the Chatworth ring, or whether it was just the sight of Kerr himself as he sat there that stirred her, she didn't try to distinguish.
Nothing bored her so much as a paper, but to-night she knew it contained something she really wanted to see. She opened one of the damp sheets at the page of sales. There it was at the head of the column in thick black type: AT AUCTION, FEBRUARY 18 PERSONAL ESTATE OF ELIZABETH HUNTER CHATWORTH CONSISTING OF
"But you don't understand," she protested, leaning far toward him as if to coerce him with her generous warmth. "The Chatworth ring was nothing but a fancy I had. I never thought of it for a moment as an engagement ring!" By the light stir of silk she was aware that Clara had risen. She looked up quickly to encounter that odd look.
They might seem to meet but between those two extremes, between a Chatworth and a Farrell Wand why, there was all the world's experience between! She raised her eyes and smiled at him in thinking of it, but the smile faltered and she drew away. They were about to be disturbed.
My number was one hundred and ninety-three, and so far I can vouch there were no discoveries. It has vanished sunk out of sight." Flora sighed. "Oh, poor Bessie Chatworth!" It came out with a quick inconsequence that made Clara even in her impatience ever so faintly smile. "It seems so cruel to have your things taken like that when you're dead, and can't help it," Flora rather lamely explained.
"Eh?" said Chatworth, interrogating the goldsmith with his monocle. "What do you want?" The little man finished his long, and, what had seemed his blind, stare; then dived into his sleeve. He drew forth a crumpled thing which seemed to be a pellet and this he proceeded to unfold.
They had thought it far at sea; and as if at a wave of a genii's wand it was here before them flashing in the quiet garden. With an effort Chatworth seemed to keep himself from seizing on ring and man together. He looked searchingly at the goldsmith and seemed on the point of asking a question, but, instead, he slowly held out his hand. He held it out cup-fashion.
Flora crept cautiously forward, loath to come near, but curious, and saw him spread out and hold up a roughly torn triangle of newspaper. She gave a cry at sight of it. Across the top in thick black type ran the figures $20,000. Chatworth pointed a stern forefinger. "What is it?" he said, though by his tone he knew. The Chinaman also pointed at it, but cautious and apologetic.
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