Suddenly she cut short the nervous outbreak of suggestions and in the same firm voice continued: “Every one take his place about the table. That’s it. That will do.” The women, with the exception of the inscrutable Maude Lille, gazed hysterically from face to face; while the men, compressing their fingers, locking them or grasping their chins, looked straight ahead fixedly at their hostess. Mrs. Kildair, having calmly assured herself that all were ranged as she wished, blew out two of the three candles. “I shall count one hundred, no more, no less,” she said. “Either I get back that ring or every one in this room is to be searched, remember.” Leaning over, she blew out the remaining candle and snuffed it. “One, two, three, four, five—” She began to count with the inexorable regularity of a clock’s ticking. In the room every sound was distinct, the rustle of a dress, the grinding of a shoe, the deep, slightly asthmatic breathing of a man. “Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three—” She continued to count, while in the methodic unvarying note of her voice there was a rasping reiteration that began to affect the company. A slight gasping breath, uncontrollable, almost on the verge of hysterics, was heard, and a man nervously clearing his throat. “Forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven—” Still nothing had happened. Mrs. Kildair did not vary her measure the slightest, only the sound became more metallic. “Sixty-six, sixty-seven, sixty-eight, sixty-nine and seventy—” Some one had sighed. “Seventy-three, seventy-four, seventy-five, seventy-six, seventy-seven—” All at once, clear, unmistakable, on the resounding plane of the table was heard a slight metallic note. “The ring!” It was Maude Lille’s quick voice that had spoken. Mrs. Kildair continued to count. “Eighty-nine, ninety, ninety-one—” The tension became unbearable. Two or three voices protested against the needless prolonging of the torture. “Ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine and one hundred.” A match sputtered in Mrs. Kildair’s hand and on the instant the company craned forward. In the center of the table was the sparkling sapphire and diamond ring. Candles were lit, flaring up like searchlights on the white accusing faces. “Mr. Cheever, you may give it to me,” said Mrs. Kildair. She held out her hand without trembling, a smile of triumph on her face, which had in it for a moment an expression of positive cruelty. Immediately she changed, contemplating with amusement the horror of her guests, staring blindly from one to another, seeing the indefinable glance of interrogation that passed from Cheever to Mrs. Cheever, from Mrs. Jackson to her husband, and then without emotion she said: