“Certainly.” She drew it off with some nervousness, gave it to him, and, as he looked, watched him and it alternately with vague anxiety. “A very old, a very quaint setting,” he said, “and a fine----” He paused; her mouth was dry and her skin hot. “A fine stone--a beautiful stone,” he continued. “One of the finest I ever saw. The flaw is slight.” Elsie drew a long breath--she felt an unaccountable sense of relief. The manager took his glass, went to the window, and studied the stone and the setting. “I’m glad to hear you say the stone’s genuine,” said she, now admitting to herself that Madame Almansa’s poison had been lurking far down in her mind. “Someone doubted it, and as it was important to me to know, I intended to ask you.” “In that case,” said the manager, “I feel it’s my duty to tell you the stone’s an imitation.” Elsie grew rigid and cold from amazement and rising horror. “A good imitation,” continued the manager, intent upon the stone, “but unquestionably not genuine. The setting makes it additionally deceptive.” “How much is the ring worth?” she asked, gathering herself together heroically. “Well--the stone, of course, is worthless--a few dollars. But the setting is old and quite beautiful. It might bring a hundred or so from a collector if it hit his fancy and had an authentic history. If the stone were genuine, the ring would be worth about--five thousand, I should say, as a rough guess.” “Fortunately, I haven’t bought it yet,” she said carelessly. And she took it from him and put it--in her pocketbook. “The stone seems to have been undisturbed in that setting for a long time,” she added, as she closed the pocketbook. “Oh, there’s no telling as to that. It was manufactured by the newest process. It has been only two or three years, I believe, since they learned to put in the flaws so cleverly. They make them very well in New York now.” “Thank you so much, Mr. Macready,” said Elsie. “You won’t say anything about it, will you?” “You needn’t have asked that, Miss Pope,” answered Macready with a reproachful smile. “Thank you again,” she said. It was not until she was driving away, that her cheeks began to burn fiercely and the hot tears of shame and anger to scald her eyes. XIV She went straight to her father with the whole story. He listened sitting at his desk, balancing a broad ivory paper-cutter on his forefinger. She felt much better when she had finished; her anger seemed to have been carried off in her words. After a long silence her father said: “What do you wish to do?” She looked foolish. “I don’t know, papa,” she said feebly. “What do you think we ought to do?” “He may have been honestly deceived.” “But Mr. Macready said----” “That was merely his offhand opinion,” he interrupted. “They’ve been making imitation jewels of all kinds for years. I know the Italians have long been clever at it.”