"I went home perfectly wretched. Pat thought I was ill. I didn't contradict him. I hadn't made up my mind what to do. But one thing I did--I kept the ring. Day before yesterday he asked me for it. I knew what that meant! He wanted to write to _her_ again--perhaps had a letter to answer. I showed quite plainly that I hated giving up the ring. But he didn't care. He would have it. The only sort of 'concession' he made was to say he'd give it back next day--after he'd finished a batch of correspondence. Well, the next day came, and he didn't give the ring back, though I saw he wasn't wearing it. You know how forgetful and careless he often is! I was sure he'd left the ring where he sealed his letters. He'd promised I should have it again. I suppose I had a right to _take_ it, hadn't I?" Juliet paused, her eyes dry now, challenging Jack. But he did not speak, and she hurried on to defend herself. "I _felt_ I had the right," she persisted, without conviction. "So yesterday I went into the room that used to be Dad's den. It's Pat's den now. He wasn't in----" "Did you think he would be?" "No-o. As a matter of fact, he'd gone to the bank. You know he works there. He's quite keen. He'd been late about getting off, so he'd started in a hurry. His desk wasn't locked. I don't know whether he ever locks it, because I never tried the drawers before. Anyhow, in the top drawer a lot of letters were tumbled in--letters he'd received, and letters he'd written--not in envelopes yet. All sorts of things were there in disorder--fountain pens, sealing wax, and--_the ring_! It was on an open letter that lay face up, a letter with a purple monogram of L.P. A perfume came up from the paper--a queer perfume, and the writing--in purple ink--was queer, too. I saw the beginning I told you about: 'My Best and Dearest Friend'--in French. Oh, Jack, I thought I should have died. I almost wish I had!" "Nonsense!" Jack scouted her grief. "If the letter had had anything in it Pat was ashamed to have you see, you may be sure even he wouldn't have been so careless." "It wasn't exactly carelessness made him leave it," Juliet said, sadly. "It was trust in me. He didn't dream that I--would do such a thing as read a letter of his. And I didn't read it. I didn't read another word, Jack. One side of me wanted to, horribly. The other side was disgusted at the idea--the stronger side, it turned out." "Good girl!" cried Jack. "Yes, I do think I was a saint. But virtue never has any reward except its own. I left the ring and the letter. But I felt half dead. I decided things couldn't go on as they were. I meant to speak to Pat when he came home." "And did you?"