“Do you? Then you might—” She gazed toward the conservatory where it was dim and shadowy. “No; it wouldn’t do. We’re not engaged any more. Besides—” And she looked toward a straight proud figure with golden hair. She didn’t finish what she was going to say. Only—“I guess I won’t make you,” she added. “Thanks,” said Bob. “You’re sure the best pal a chap ever had. But honest! I hate to be mean and disappoint you after all you’ve done. And I might volunteer, if you’d make it just one—or, at the most, two.” A moment the temperamental little thing seemed to waver. Then the rosebud lips set more firmly. “No,” she said. “It’s awfully dear of you to offer, but I don’t want any. You’ve made me see the error of my ways. I’ve reformed. I only want to be your jolly little pal. But you haven’t any conscientious scruples about the way I disposed of it, have you?” she asked, swiftly changing the subject. “Conscientious scruples? Not one. Ho! ho!” But the laughter faded suddenly from Bob’s lips. At that moment the hammer-thrower chanced to put his fingers in his waistcoat pocket. Then he gave a slight start and glanced toward the temperamental little thing; his brow was lowering, and he appeared to meditate. Bob knew there must be murder in his heart. Just then from across the room, Bob saw the monocle-man approaching the hammer-thrower. The latter cast a swift look toward him of the monocle. It was the look of a man who for the first time, perhaps, fully realizes, or begins to realize certain unexpected forces arrayed against him. He now had the ring and he dared not keep it. If he had never entertained any suspicions regarding the monocle-man’s identity before, there was something about the other now that awoke sudden and secret misgivings. The monocle-man didn’t make much of a point of disguising his watchfulness at the present time. That was odd—unless he didn’t greatly care just now whether any one guessed his identity or not. Possibly the psychological moment was approaching. The hammer-thrower thought, no doubt, that Bob had told the temperamental little thing that he (the hammer-man) had taken the ring from Miss Gerald’s room and Miss Dolly had offered to return it to the hammer-thrower. And she had found a way to do so. It was clever. But the hammer-thrower was not in a mood to appreciate the grim jest. Now that the tables were turned, Bob and Miss Dolly would make it their business to see that the glittering trifle was found in _his_ possession. The hammer-thrower couldn’t dispose of it under the circumstances; he was in exactly the same predicament Bob had been in. Suddenly he seemed to make up his mind what to do; he adopted the most daring expedient. In those few moments he had done some very rapid thinking. He stepped toward Miss Gerald now, his face wearing its most reliable expression. Honesty fairly radiated from his square solid countenance. “Miss Gerald,” he said, “may I speak with you privately?” “Is it important?” she asked.