It may not be his
body after all."
"And the ring?" she asked, with a bitter smile.
"That may be just a coincidence. It was a copy of a well-known form of
antique ring. Other people may have had copies made as well as your
uncle. Besides," I added, with more conviction, "we haven't seen the
ring. It may not be his at all."
She shook her head. "My dear Paul," she said quietly, "it is useless to
delude ourselves. Every known fact points to the certainty that it is
his body. John Bellingham is dead: there can be no doubt of that. And to
everyone except his unknown murderer and one or two of my own loyal
friends, it must seem that his death lies at my door. I realised from
the beginning that the suspicion lay between George Hurst and me; and
the finding of the ring fixes it definitely on me. I am only surprised
that the police have made no move yet."
The quiet conviction of her tone left me for a while speechless with
horror and despair. Then I recalled Thorndyke's calm, even confident
attitude, and I hastened to remind her of it.
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