"Give me the ring," he said. "You can't have it yet. Some day I will restore it to you. Be sensible. If anybody should happen to see you." Mrs. Henson merely laughed. The dogs were gambolling around her like so many kittens. They did not seem to heed Henson in the joy of her presence. He came on again, he made a grab for her dress, but the rotten fabric parted like a cobweb in his hand. A warning grunt came from one of the dogs, but Henson gave no heed. "Give it me," he hissed; "or I will tear it from you." CHAPTER XLIII HEARING THE TRUTH David Steel stood contemplating the weird scene with almost doubting eyes. In his wildest moments he had never imagined anything more dramatic than this. The candle in its silver sconce that Mrs. Henson had snatched up before her flight was perilously near her flimsy dress. Henson caught her once more in a fierce grip. David could stand it no longer. As Henson came by him his right arm flashed out, there was a dull thud, and Henson, without having the least idea what had happened, fell to the ground, with a very hazy idea of his surroundings for a moment or two. Equally unconscious that she had a protector handy, Mrs. Henson turned and fled for the house. A minute later and she was followed by Henson, still puzzling his racking head to know what had happened. David would have followed, but the need for caution flashed upon him. If he stood there perfectly still Henson would never know who his antagonist was. David stood there waiting. As he glanced round he saw some little object glittering near to his feet. It was the ruby ring! "Be you there, sir?" a rusty voice whispered close by. "I am, Williams," David replied; "I have been waiting for some time." Williams chuckled, making no kind of apology for his want of punctuality. "I've been looking after our man, sir," he said. "That Dutch chap what Miss Enid said you'd come for. And I saw all that business in the shrubbery just now. My! if I didn't feel good when you laid out Henson on the grass. The sound of that smack was as good as ten years' wages for me. And he's gone off to his room with a basin of vinegar and a ream of brown paper. Why didn't you break his neck?" David suggested that the law took a prejudiced view of that kind of thing, and that it would be a pity to hang anyone for such a creature as Reginald Henson. "Our man is all right?" he asked. "As a trivet," said Williams. "Sleeping like a baby; he is in my own bed over the stable. I'll show you into the harness-room, where Miss Enid's waiting for you, sir, and then I'll go and see as Henson don't come prowling about. Not as he's likely to, considering the clump on the side of the head you gave him. I take it kind of Providence to let me see that!" Williams hobbled away, chuckling to himself and followed by David. There was a feeble oil-lamp in the harness-room. Enid was waiting there anxiously.