"We've got a half-hour together," he said. "Then Dr. Torrance and the
Marchese di Morello may turn up at any minute. Torrance is an elderly
man, a decent sort of chap, and deadly respectable. He'll do the heavy
father well enough. Paolo di Morello is an Italian. I don't care for him;
but the troublesome business about my name is a handicap.

"I can trust these men. And at least they won't put you to shame. You can
judge them when they come, so enough talk about them for the present!
This is my excuse for being here," and he put into Annesley's hand a
flat, oval-shaped parcel. "My wedding gift to my bride," he added, in a
softer tone. "Open it, sweet."

The white paper wrapping was fastened with small red seals. If the girl
had had knowledge of such things she would have known that it was a
jeweller's parcel. But the white, gold-stamped silk case within surprised
her. She pressed a tiny knob, and the cover flew up to show a string of
pearls which made her gasp.

"For the Princess, from her Knight," he said. "And here"--he took
from the inner pocket of his coat a band of gold set with a big white
diamond--"is your engagement ring. Every girl must have one, you know,
even if her engagement _is_ the shortest on record. I've the wedding
ring, too. But it isn't the time for that. A good-sized diamond's the
obvious sort of thing: advertises itself for what it is, and that's
what we want. You'll wear it, as much as to say, 'I was engaged like
everybody else.' But if there wasn't a reason against it, _this_ is what
I should like to put on your finger."

As he spoke, he hid the spark of light in his other hand, and from the
pocket whence it had come produced another ring.