displeased her. She was still a woman.

"Is this final? You're a fine young man, Mr. Wendel. I know you. I
stepped in to save you. You are playing with something stranger
than the moonbeams. No man may wear that ring and hold to life.
Again, Harry, I ask you; for your own sake."

At this moment we passed Watson. He was watching; as our eyes
glanced he shook his head. Who was this girl? She was as beautiful
as sin and as tender as a virgin. What interest had she in myself?

"That's just the reason," I laughed. "You are too interested. You
are too beautiful to wear it. I am a man; I revel in trouble; you
are a girl. It would not be honourable to allow you to take it. I
shall keep it."

She had overreached herself, and she knew it. She bit her lip. But
she took it gracefully; so much so, in fact, that I thought she
meant it.

"I'm sorry," she answered slowly. "I had hopes. It is terrible to
look at Watson and then to think of you. It is, really"--a faint
tremor ran through her body; her hand trembled--"it is terrible.
You young men are so unafraid. It's too bad."

Just then the door was opened; outside I could see the bank of
fog; someone passed. She turned a bit pale.

"Excuse me. I must be going. Don't you see I'm sorry--"