Mrs. Travers said, suddenly, "That Jorgenson is not friendly to us."
"Possibly."
With clasped hands and leaning over his knees d'Alcacer had assented
in a very low tone. Mrs. Travers, unobserved, pressed her hands to her
breast and felt the shape of the ring, thick, heavy, set with a big
stone. It was there, secret, hung against her heart, and enigmatic. What
did it mean? What could it mean? What was the feeling it could arouse or
the action it could provoke? And she thought with compunction that she
ought to have given it to Lingard at once, without thinking, without
hesitating. "There! This is what I came for. To give you this." Yes, but
there had come an interval when she had been able to think of nothing,
and since then she had had the time to reflect--unfortunately. To
remember Jorgenson's hostile, contemptuous glance enveloping her from
head to foot at the break of a day after a night of lonely anguish. And
now while she sat there veiled from his keen sight there was that other
man, that d'Alcacer, prophesying. O yes, triumphant. She knew already
what that was. Mrs. Travers became afraid of the ring. She felt ready to
pluck it from her neck and cast it away.
"I mistrust him," she said.--"You do!" exclaimed d'Alcacer,
very low.--"I mean that Jorgenson. He seems a merciless sort of
creature.
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