“Robbed!” cried Harry, starting up. “Never mind, Mr. Sutherland; my papa’s a justice of the peace. He’ll catch the thief for you.” “But it’s your papa’s ring that they’ve stolen. He lent it to me, and what if he should not believe me?” “Not believe you, Mr. Sutherland? But he must believe you. I will tell him all about it; and he knows I never told him a lie in my life.” “But you don’t know anything about it, Harry.” “But you will tell me, won’t you?” Hugh could not help smiling with pleasure at the confidence his pupil placed in him. He had not much fear about being believed, but, at the best, it was an unpleasant occurrence. The loss of his own ring not only added to his vexation, but to his perplexity as well. What could she want with his ring? Could she have carried with her such a passion for jewels, as to come from the grave to appropriate those of others as well as to reclaim her own? Was this her comfort in Hades, ‘poor ghost’? Would it be better to tell Mr. Arnold of the loss of both rings, or should he mention the crystal only? He came to the conclusion that it would only exasperate him the more, and perhaps turn suspicion upon himself, if he communicated the fact that he too was a loser, and to such an extent; for Hugh’s ring was worth twenty of the other, and was certainly as sacred as Mr. Arnold’s, if not so ancient. He would bear it in silence. If the one could not be found, there could certainly be no hope of the other. Punctual as the clock, Mr. Arnold returned. It did not prejudice him in favour of the reporter of bad tidings, that he begged a word with him before dinner, when that was on the point of being served. It was, indeed, exceeding impolitic; but Hugh would have felt like an impostor, had he sat down to the table before making his confession. “Mr. Arnold, I am sorry to say I have been robbed, and in your house, too.” “In my house? Of what, pray, Mr. Sutherland?” Mr. Arnold had taken the information as some weak men take any kind of information referring to themselves or their belongings—namely, as an insult. He drew himself up, and lowered portentously. “Of your ring, Mr. Arnold.” “Of—my—ring?” And he looked at his ring-finger, as if he could not understand the import of Hugh’s words. “Of the ring you lent me to decipher,” explained Hugh. “Do you suppose I do not understand you, Mr. Sutherland? A ring which has been in the family for two hundred years at least! Robbed of it? In my house? You must have been disgracefully careless, Mr. Sutherland. You have lost it.”