The tension became unbearable. Two or three voices protested against the
needless prolonging of the torture.

"Ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine and one hundred."

A match sputtered in Mrs. Kildair's hand and on the instant the company
craned forward. In the center of the table was the sparkling sapphire
and diamond ring. Candles were lit, flaring up like searchlights on the
white accusing faces.

"Mr. Cheever, you may give it to me," said Mrs. Kildair. She held out
her hand without trembling, a smile of triumph on her face, which had in
it for a moment an expression of positive cruelty.

Immediately she changed, contemplating with amusement the horror of her
guests, staring blindly from one to another, seeing the indefinable
glance of interrogation that passed from Cheever to Mrs. Cheever, from
Mrs. Jackson to her husband, and then without emotion she said:

"Now that that is over we can have a very gay little supper."

When Peters had pushed back his chair, satisfied as only a trained
raconteur can be by the silence of a difficult audience, and had busied
himself with a cigar, there was an instant outcry.

"I say, Peters, old boy, that is not all!"

"Absolutely."