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“Butiful evenin’,” said Bowden. “Fine weather for the corn. Drink o’ cider?”

Steer shook his head. The cautious man was making sure of his surroundings before he opened fire. Old Mrs. Bowden sat in her chair by the hearth with her little old back turned to the room. Bowden’s white-headed bobtail was stretched out with his chin on his paws; a yellow cat crouched, still as the Sphinx, with half-closed eyes; nothing else was alive, except the slow-ticking clock.

Steer held up the amethyst ring.

“See this?”

Undisturbed by meaning or emotion, Bowden’s face was turned slowly towards the ring.

“Ah! What about it?”

“’Twas given to my niece for a purpose. Is that purpose goin’ to be fulfilled?”

“Tidden for me to say. Ask Ned.”

Steer closed his hand, slightly covered with reddish hairs.

“I’ve heard tales,” he said. “And if he don’ mean to keep his word I’ll have the law of him. I’ve always thought my niece a sight too good for him; but if he thinks he can put a slight on her he’s reckonin’ without the cost—that’s all.”