The Frenchman flushed slightly, drew off the ring with some little difficulty, and passed it across the table to Tom. Tom’s fingers clutched it like a vice. Janvard saw the movement and half rose, as if to reclaim the ring; but it was too late, and he sat down without speaking. Tom pushed the ring carelessly over one of his fingers, and turned it towards the light. “A very pretty gem, indeed!” he said. “And worth something considerable in sovereigns, I should say.” “Will you allow me to examine it for a moment?” asked Lionel gravely, as he held out his hand. For the second time Janvard half rose from his seat, and for the second time he sat down without a word. Tom handed the ring across to Lionel. “A magnificent stone, indeed,” said the latter, “but somewhat old-fashioned in the setting. But that only makes it the more valuable in my eyes. A family heirloom, without doubt. And see! inside the hoop are three initials. They are somewhat difficult to decipher, but if I read them aright they are M. K. L.” “Yes, yes, monsieur,” said Janvard, uneasily. “As you say, M. K. L. The initials of the friend who gave me the ring.” He held out his hand, as if expecting that the ring should at once be given back to him, but Lionel took no notice of the action. “Three very curious initials, indeed,” said Lionel, musingly. “One could not readily fit them to many names. M. K. L. They put me in mind of a curious coincidence—of a very remarkable coincidence indeed. I once had a friend who had a ruby ring very similar to this one, and inside the hoop of my friend’s ring were three initials. The initials in question were M. K. L. Precisely the same as the letters engraved on your ring, Monsieur Janvard. Curious, is it not?” “Mille diables! I am betrayed!” cried Janvard, as he started from his seat, and made a snatch at the ring. But Lionel was too quick for him. The ring had disappeared, but Janvard had it not. He turned with a snarl like that of a wild animal brought to bay, and looked towards the door. But between him and the door now stood Tom Bristow, no longer with any signs of inebriety about him, but as cold, quiet, and collected as ever he had looked in his life. Tom’s right hand was hidden in the bosom of his vest, and Janvard’s ears were smitten by the ominous click of a revolver. His eyes wandered back to the stern dark face of Lionel. There was no hope for him there. The pallor of his face deepened. His wonderful nerve for once was beginning to desert him. He was trembling visibly. “Sit down, sir,” said Lionel, sternly, “and refresh yourself with another glass of wine. I have something of much importance to say to you.” The Frenchman hesitated for a moment. Then he shrugged his shoulders and sat down. His sang-froid was coming back to him. He drank two glasses of wine rapidly one after another. “I am ready, monsieur,” he said, quietly, as he wiped his thin lips, and made a ghastly effort to smile. “At your service.”