"Come and sit down, sir," cried Olive, patting the brickwork with her
small, white hand, "one would think that you did not like your company."

He obeyed slowly and took a seat by her side, drawing so hard at his
cigar that the light of it shone upon his fare at every breath. He
passed his arm, firm and rigid as steel, behind her, with his hand
resting on the brickwork beyond.

"Are you warm enough?" he asked tenderly, as she made a little movement.
"Pretty fair," she shivered; "one oughtn't to be cold at this time of the
year, but there's a cold, damp air comes up from the well."

As she spoke a faint splash sounded from the depths below, and for the
second time that evening, she sprang from the well with a little cry of
dismay.

"What is it now?" he asked in a fearful voice. He stood by her side and
gazed at the well, as though half expecting to see the cause of her alarm
emerge from it.

"Oh, my bracelet," she cried in distress, "my poor mother's bracelet.
I've dropped it down the well."

"Your bracelet!" repeated Benson, dully. "Your bracelet? The diamond
one?"

"The one that was my mother's," said Olive. "Oh, we can get it back
surely. We must have the water drained off."

"Your bracelet!" repeated Benson, stupidly.