"I beg your pardon, sir," he said, in a quick, nervous manner, "but you have a wonderful ring there." Lawrence did not lift his eyes from the tray. "I think it rather good myself," he admitted. His tone was intended to quell this unwelcome display of interest, but it quite failed of its effect. "I have never seen anything like it before," the salesman went on rapidly. "Would you mind if I—looked at it more closely?" Barry glanced up with a faint frown, alert for the hidden meaning in the man’s words. What he saw reassured him. The wide brow, the vibrant, tapering fingers—above all, the soft brown eyes, shining with enthusiastic interest—all pointed toward an expert in his line, to whom a thing of beauty was a source of joy, no matter where he found it. Without a word, Lawrence extended his hand, and the salesman bent over it, his eyes devouring the ring. "Extraordinary!" he murmured, half to himself. "The stone is perfect, and worth a small fortune, but the workmanship is even more unusual." He sighed a little, and went on in a rapt tone: "Eastern, of course. Probably Indian, but not the stuff they make there now. I should place it in the reign of Shah Jahan, the golden age of Delhi—over three hundred years ago. But of course you know all this. I must beg your pardon for letting my interest get the better of me." "You needn’t," Barry returned. "I am very glad to know what you have told me. The former owner of the ring gave me little or no information of its history." Having, concluded his purchases, to which he added a silver cigarette case, he continued his walk up the avenue in a rather thoughtful mood. So the ring had come from India! Still, that proved nothing. He could not picture the little man in black having anything to do with that country, and it did not really follow that he had. No doubt the emerald had passed through numberless hands since leaving the loving fingers of its creator. It was foolish to waste time puzzling over a problem the solution of which was beyond his reach. Besides, Lawrence had a curious feeling of irresponsibility, a conviction that he was in the hands of fate. What was to be, would be. There was nothing left for him to do but float with the current. Since that current promised at the moment to take him into pleasant places, he made no effort to struggle out of it, or swim away. *CHAPTER VII.* *NEW GRACE AND DIGNITY.* It was half past six, and Lawrence stood in the bedroom of his attractive suite, taking a last critical look at his reflection in the long mirror. Mrs. Kerr would scarcely have recognized in that tall, distinguished figure in evening dress her former lodger. Somehow, it was not the clothes alone which made the difference, though they had, of course, much to do with it. Few men there are who do not feel the influence of well-cut, perfectly fitting evening clothes.