St. George, thrilling with the strangeness of what he saw, and the strangeness of being there with Olivia and this weird old man of the mountain, turned toward him almost fearfully. How did he know, indeed? "Ah well," he said, striving to reassure her, "I've no doubt he has wandered in here some evening, while you were at dinner. No doubt--" He stopped abruptly, his eyes fixed on the old man's hand. For as he lifted it St. George had thought that something glittered. Without hesitation he caught the old man's arm about the wrist, and turned his hand in his own palm. In the thin fingers he found a small sealed tube, filled with something that looked like particles of nickel. "Do you mind telling me what that is?" asked St. George. Old Malakh's eyes, liquid and brown and very peaceful, met his own without rebuke. "Do you mean the gem?" he asked gently. "It is a very beautiful ruby." Then St. George saw upon the hand that held the sealed tube a ring of matchless workmanship, set with a great ruby that smouldered in the shadow where they stood. Olivia looked at St. George with startled eyes. "He was not wearing this when we first saw him," she said. "I haven't seen him wearing it at all." St. George confronted the old man then and spoke with some determination. "Will you please tell us," he said, "what there is in this tube, and how you came by this ring?" Old Malakh looked down reflectively at his hand, and back to St. George's face. It was wonderful, the air of courtliness and urbanity and delicate breeding which persisted through age and infirmity and the fallow mind. "I wish that I might tell you," he said humbly, "but I have only little lights in my head, instead of words. And when I say them, they do not mean--what they _shine_. Do you not see? That is why every one laughs. But I know what the lights say." St. George looked at Olivia helplessly. "Will you tell me where his room is?" he said, "and I'll go back with him. I don't know what to make of this, quite, but don't be frightened. It's all right. Didn't you say he is on the second floor?" "Yes, but don't go alone with him," begged Olivia suddenly, "let me call some of the servants. We don't know what he may do." St. George shook his head, smiling a little in sheer boyish delight at that "we." "We" is a very wonderful word, when it is not put to unimportant uses by kings, editors and the like. "I'd rather not, thank you," he said. "I'll have a talk with him, I think." "His room is at the top of the stair, on the left," said Olivia reluctantly, "but I wish--" "We shall get on all right," St. George assured her, "and don't let this worry you, will you? I was smoking on the terrace. I'll be there for a while yet. Good night," he said from the doorway. "Good night," said Olivia. "Good night--and, oh, I thank you."