The face of the Best Seller brightened. "Good for you!" he exclaimed,
elegantly.
"The editor went home," I resumed. "She was very tired and still very
much discouraged. The long, hot ride had dispelled the memory of her
moments of peace. As she put her key in the lock of her door the old
mother heard the sound and came trotting down the hall to meet her.
She always did that, and usually she had a dozen questions to ask. Was
the editor tired? Had she had a hard day? Had it been very hot in her
office? But to-night she asked none of these. She came straight to the
editor and laid her hands on the other's shoulders; her face held an
odd look, apologetic, almost frightened.
"'Oh, my dear,' she quavered. 'I have a confession to make to you. I
have been false to a sacred trust.'
"The editor laughed and led her back into the living-room, where she
seated her in a big chair by an open window. She did not believe the
old lady had ever been false to any trust, and she was very anxious
to get out of her working-clothes and into cool garments.
"'I suppose it's something simply appalling,' she said. 'Let me
fortify myself for it with a bath and a glass of lemonade. Then I'll
listen to it.'
"But the old lady shook her head. 'No, no,' she gulped. 'I've waited
too long already. I _must_ do it now. Oh, listen; _please_ listen!'
"The editor humored her. The old lady was not often unreasonable, and
it was clear that she was desperately in earnest. The editor sat down
and rested her tired head against the back of her chair while she drew
off her gloves.
"'Very well,' she said, 'I'm listening.'
"The old lady began at once. Her words came out with an indescribable
effect of breathlessness, as if she could not make her explanation
soon enough. She leaned forward, her faded eyes, with their old
frightened look, fastened on the editor's face.
"'The day before my daughter died,' she began, almost in a whisper,
'she and I had our last talk. She seemed better. Neither of us thought
she was very ill. But she said it was wise when she felt well to
discuss a few things. She told me how little money we had and where it
was, and she said the Mother Superior had promised to let me stay in
the convent if ever I needed a home. Then she took off her ring, the
Community ring she had always worn as the symbol of her office, and
handed it to me. 'If I go before you,' she ended, 'I want you to send
this ring to our friend in New York--our friend the editor.'
"The old woman stopped. In her hand she held something with which her
fingers fumbled. Her head drooped.
"'I forgot it,' she confessed, in a whisper the editor strained her
ears to catch. 'When she died so suddenly the next day I forgot
everything except her going. When I remembered a few months later I
did not know how to send the ring to you, so I waited. And when I came
to New York those first horrible days in the lodging-house sent
everything else out of my mind.' Her head drooped lower. 'You'll
forgive me,' she ended.
"She rose and came toward the editor, and the editor rose to face her.
"'Why, my dear,' she began, 'you mustn't give it a second thought. Why
should you worry about it?'
"But the old lady interrupted her and went on, as if she had been
checked in a recital which she must finish without a break. 'Wait,'
she said. 'To-day, this afternoon, I remembered it! The memory came to
me with a kind of shock. I thought, "I have never given her the ring."
It brought me out of my chair. I started to get the ring at once, but
I could not remember where it was. I stood still, trying to think.
Then suddenly that came to me, too. It was down in the corner of my
biggest trunk, the one I had not unpacked, the one that holds all my
winter things. So I unpacked it--and here is the ring.'
"She held it out. It was a heavy gold band with a raised Latin
inscription on its outer surface. The editor took it in her hand, but
her mind held only one idea.
"'You unpacked that great trunk,' she gasped, 'this frightfully hot
day? With all those furs and flannels? Why, Mrs. Driscoll, how _could_
you do such a thing?'
"The old woman drew a deep breath. 'I had to,' she muttered. Her
eyebrows puckered. Plainly, she was puzzled and a little afraid. 'I
felt I had to,' she repeated. 'It seemed,' she added, slowly, 'almost
like a message from my daughter!'
"The editor turned the ring in her hand and looked at the Latin
inscription, and as she did so she saw again, not the face of the
beautiful woman who had come to her after her downfall, but the quiet
convent chapel in which she herself had knelt that afternoon. A little
chill ran the length of her spine. For there were three words on the
ring."
The Diplomat leaned forward. "That's interesting," he said. "I didn't
know about the inscription. The three words were--"
"'_Adveniat Regnum Tuum_,'" said the editor.
"'Thy Kingdom Come,'" translated the Best Seller, swiftly, proud of
his Latin. "By Jove, the editor got her message, didn't she? I like
your ending, Miss Iverson. But it doesn't prove the original point."
The Playwright leaned across the table. "Doesn't it?" she asked,
gently. "Then show them the ring, May."
I drew the heavy circle from my finger. In silence it was passed from
palm to palm. The glance of the blue-eyed woman touched the face of
the Playwright, the Diplomat, and the Author and rested on me. Then
she drew a deep breath.
"So it's true!" she said. "You four saw it work out! Where is Mrs.
Driscoll now?"
"In the Emerson Home for Gentlewomen," the Diplomat told her. "The
best, I think, in this country. You ran out to see her last week,
didn't you, Bassinger?"
The Author admitted the charge. "She's very happy there," he said.
At his table at the head of the room our host was on his feet. "Ladies
and gentlemen," he began--
But the Best Seller was whispering to me. "It wasn't exactly
telepathy," he said, "for no one but the old lady knew anything about
that ring. It was just an odd coincidence that sent her burrowing into
furs and moth-balls that hot day. But you can make a story of it, Miss
Iverson--a good one, too, if you'll work in a lot of drama and
pathos."