So that was it. The ring and the maiden. What was the bond? There
was weirdness in its colour, almost cabalistic--a call out of the
occult. The strange beauty of the girl, her remarkable presence,
and her concern. Whoever and whatever she was her anxiety was not
personal. In some way she was woven up with this ring and poor
Watson.

"I think I shall," I answered.

Again the strange querulous pity and hesitation; her eyes grew
darker, almost pleading.

"You won't give it to me?"

How near I came to doing it I shall not tell. It would be hard to
say it. I knew vaguely that she was playing; that I was the
plaything. It is hard for a man to think of himself as being toyed
with. She was certain; she was confident of my weakness. It was
resentment, perhaps, and pride of self that gave the answer.

"I think I shall keep it."

"Do you know the danger, Harry? It is death to wear it. A thousand
perils--"

"Then I shall keep it. I like peril. You wish for the ring. If I
keep it I may have you. This is the first time I have danced with
the girl out of the moonbeams."

Her eyes snapped, and she stopped dancing. I don't think my words