“You must tell me. This ring? She said that you must give it to me. What
is it?” she insisted.
“Did she ask that? She told you to take the ring? My dear,” I asked, “if
it were the ring and it were so sinister would I be a man to give it to
my loved one?”
“It would not hurt me.”
But I would not. Something warned me. It was a ruse to get it out of my
possession. The whole thing was haunting, weird, ghostly. Always I could
hear Watson. I still had a small quota of courage and will-power. I
clung steadfastly to my purpose.
It was a sad three hours. Poor Charlotte! I shall never forget it. It is
the hardest task on earth to deny one's loved one.
She had grown into my heart and into its possession. She clung to me
tenderly, tearfully. I could not tell her. Her feminine instinct sensed
disaster. In spite of her tears I insisted. When I kissed her goodnight
she did not speak. But she looked up at me through her tears. It was the
hardest thing of all for me to bear.