The Talisman Ring

there under his own eye. On the other hand, it was, of course, possible that the man was known to Nye. She replied civilly: “Yes, very cold.”

“Bitter wind blowing outside,” pursued the stranger. “Ah well, it’s seasonable, ain’t it, ma’am? We hadn’t ought to complain. Begging your pardon, sir, if I might put another log of wood on the fire—Thank you, sir!”

The Beau, who was standing by the basket containing wood, moved to allow the stranger to approach it.

“That’s the worst of a wood fire,” said the stranger, selecting a suitable log. “They fall away to nothing in less than no time, don’t they, sir? But we’ll have a nice blaze in a minute, you’ll see.” He bent to pick up another log, and said in a surprised tone: “Well! and what might this be, all amongst the wood?” He straightened himself as he spoke, and Miss Thane saw that he was holding the Beau’s quizzing-glass in his hand.

For a moment it seemed to her that she could neither speak nor think. While her eyes remained riveted to the glass her brain whirled. Had not Sir Tristram taken charge of the glass? Could he have been guilty of the unpardonable carelessness of mislaying it? How did it come to be in the woodbasket? And what in heaven’s name was one to do?

She pulled herself together, met Eustacie’s eyes across the room, and saw them as startled as she felt sure her own must be. She became aware of the stranger’s voice, marvelling with amiable fatuity at the queer places things would get to, to be sure, and suddenly realized why Nye had left a stranger alone in the coffee-room, and what his purpose must be. She shot a warning frown at Eustacie, still standing at the foot of the stairs, and said: “Why, there it is! Well, of all the fortunate happenings!”

The Beau held out his hand. It was shaking a little. He said: “Thank you. That is mine.”

The stranger looked rather doubtfully at him. “Yours, is it, sir? Well, if you say so, I’m sure it is so, but maybe I’d best give it to the landlord—not meaning any offence, your Honour, but seeing as it’s a valuable kind of a trinket, and me having found it.”

A fixed smile was on the Beau’s lips. He said: “Quite unnecessary, I assure you. You will perceive that it is of unusual design. I could not mistake it.”

The stranger turned it over in his hand. “Well, of course, sir, if you say so—” he began undecidedly.

“My good fellow,” interrupted the Beau. “You must have seen me look for something upon the mantelshelf a minute ago. Your scruples are quite absurd, believe me. Anyone will tell you that that glass belongs to me. Be good enough to give it to me, if you please.”

“Oh yes, certainly that is Mr Lavenham’s quizzing-glass!” said Miss Thane. “There can be no doubt!”

The stranger advanced, holding the glass out to the Beau. He grasped it, and in that instant a suspicion of the trap into which he had walked seemed to flash before his brain, and he sprang back, glaring at the man before him.

“Then, in the name of the Law I arrest you, Basil Lavenham, for the wilful murder of Matthew John Plunkett!” said the stranger.

Before he had finished speaking the Beau had whipped a pistol from his pocket and levelled it. The smile on his lips had become a ghastly grimace, but it still lingered. He said, quick and low: “Stand where you are! If you move you are a dead man!” and began to back towards the door.

The Bow Street Runner stood still perforce. Miss Thane, standing a little behind the Beau, perceived that the moment for a display of heroism had arrived, and in one swift movement got between the Beau and the door. In the same instant Eustacie shrieked: “Nye! A moi!”

The Beau, keeping his would-be captor covered, reached the door, and Miss Thane, behind him, caught his arm and bore it downwards with all her strength. He was taken unawares, gave a snarl of fury, and wrenching free from her clutch struck at her with his clenched fist. The blow landed on her temple, and Miss Thane subsided in an inanimate heap on the floor.

She became aware of a throbbing pain in her head, of the smell of Hungary Water, and of the feel of a wet cloth across her brow. “Oh dear!” she said faintly. “The quizzing-glass! Did he get away?”

“By no means,” replied a calm voice. “There is nothing to worry you: we have him safely held.”

Miss Thane ventured to open her eyes. Sir Tristram was sitting on the edge of the couch in the parlour on which she had been laid, bathing her forehead. “Oh, it’s you!” said Miss Thane.

“Yes,” said Sir Tristram.

“I knew you must have returned,” murmured Miss Thane.

He replied in his cool way: “If you knew that, what in the world possessed you to try and stop the Beau? He had no hope of escaping. I was outside with a Runner to take him if he broke from Townsend.”

“Well, pray how was I to know that?” demanded Miss Thane.

“I imagine you might have guessed it.”

She closed her eyes again, saying with dignity: “I have the headache.”

He sounded amused. “That is not very surprising, since you were hit on the head.”

A rustle of skirts heralded Eustacie’s approach. Miss Thane opened her eyes again and smiled. “Oh, you are better!” said Eustacie. “Ma pauvre, I thought he had killed you! And I must tell you that he wrenched open the door and stepped backwards right into Tristram’s arms! It was of all things the most exciting! And, do you know, he tried to throw the quizzing-glass into the fire, which was entirely stupid, because that made it quite certain that he knew where the ring was hid. I do think that this has been the most delightful adventure!”

“So it has,” agreed Miss Thane. “Positively йpatant! What have you done with the Beau, and where is Ludovic?”

“Oh, the Runners took Basil away in a chaise, and as for Ludovic, Nye has gone to let him out of the cellar.”

Miss Thane sighed. “Well, I suppose it is all for the best, but you know I cannot help feeling disappointed. I had quite made up my mind to it that Sir Tristram had absconded with the talisman ring, and I had thought of several famous schemes for recovering it. I never knew anyone so provoking!”

“Yes,” agreed Eustacie. “I must say, that is true. He is very provoking, but one must be just, enfin, and own that he has been very clever and useful.”

Miss Thane turned her head to look up at Sir Tristram. “I wish you will tell me what you did,” she said. “You were not on the Brighton mail, were you? Is it possible that you rode here ventre a terre?”

“No,” replied Sir Tristram. “I came post.”

Miss Thane seemed to abandon interest in his proceedings.

“Bringing with me,” continued Sir Tristram, “a couple of Bow Street Runners. When we arrived here I learned from Nye that by some stroke of good fortune the Beau was actually in the house. I had been wondering how we were to prevail upon him to own the quizzing-glass, and the difficulties of luring him to this place without letting him get wind of a trap seemed to me to be quite considerable. When we heard that he was already here, it was easy to set our trap. The only thing I feared was that one or other of you might put him on his guard by showing surprise at seeing the quizzing-glass. You are to be congratulated on concealing your emotions so well.”

“At first,” confessed Eustacie, “I was entirely bouleversйe, and quite unable to speak. Then Sarah frowned at me, and I thought it would be better to remain silent. I thought the Runner was one of Basil’s men, did not you, Sarah?”

“Yes, I did at first,” replied Miss Thane. “But when he picked up the glass I knew Sir Tristram must be at the back of it. Is Ludovic safe now? Will he be able to take his place in the world again?”

“Yes, there can be no doubt of that. Basil lost his head, and his attempt to dispose of the ring was a complete betrayal. How do you feel, Miss Thane?”

“Very uneasy,” she replied. “I believe there is a lump on my forehead.”

“It is already much less pronounced than it was,” said Sir Tristram consolingly.

Miss Thane regarded him with misgiving. “Tell me at once, have I a black eye?” she said.

“No, not yet.”

She gave a shriek. “Not yet? Do you mean that I shall have one?”

“I should think it highly probable,” he said, a laugh in his voice.

“Bring me the hartshorn!” begged Miss Thane in failing accents, and once more closing her eyes.

“Certainly,” said Sir Tristram. “Eustacie, fetch the hartshorn.”