 Section 17 of Library of the World's Best Mystery and Detective Stories, Volume 3. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Library of the World's Best Mystery and Detective Stories, Volume 3 by Julian Hawthorne Editor. Section 17, The Puzzle, Anonymous. Who came into my room holding something wrapped in a piece of brown paper? Tress, I have brought you something on which you may exercise your ingenuity. He began, with exasperating deliberation, to untie the string which bound his parcel. He is one of those persons who would not cut a knot to save their lives. The process occupied him the better part of a quarter of an hour. Then he held out the contents of the paper. What do you think of that? He asked. I thought nothing of it, and I told him so. I was prepared for that confession. I have noticed, Tress, that you generally do think nothing of an article which really deserves the attention of a truly thoughtful mind. Possibly, as you think so little of it, you will be able to solve the puzzle. I took what he held out to me. It was an oblong box, perhaps seven inches long, by three inches broad. Where's the puzzle? I asked. If you will examine the lid of the box, you will see. I turned it over and over. It was difficult to see which was the lid. Then I perceived that on one side were printed these words. Puzzle, to open the box. These words were so faintly printed that it was not surprising that I had not noticed them at first. Pugh explained. I observed that box on a tray outside a second-hand furniture shop. It struck my eye. I took it up. I examined it. I inquired of the proprietor of the shop in what the puzzle lay. He replied that that was more than he could tell me. He himself had made several attempts to open the box and all of them had failed. I purchased it. I took it home. I have tried and I have failed. I am aware, Tress, of how you pride yourself upon your ingenuity. I cannot doubt that, if you try, you will not fail. While Pugh was proposing, I was examining the box. It was at least well-made. It weighed certainly under two ounces. I struck it with my knuckles. It sounded hollow. There was no hinge, nothing of any kind to show that it had ever been opened or, for that matter of that, that it could be opened. The more I examined the thing, the more it whetted my curiosity. That it could be opened and in some ingenious manner I made no doubt, but how. The box was not a new one. At a rough guess, I should say that it had been a box for a good half-century. There were certain signs of age about it, which could not escape the practiced eye. Had it remained unopened all that time? When opened, what would be found inside? It sounded hollow, probably nothing at all, who could tell. It was formed of small pieces of inlaid wood. Several woods had been used. Some of them were strange to me. They were of different colors. It was pretty obvious they all must have been hardwood. The pieces were of various shapes, hexagonal, octagonal, triangular, square, oblong, and even circular. The process of inlaying them had been beautifully done. So nicely had the parts been joined that the lines of meeting were difficult to discover with the naked eye. They had been joined solid, so to speak. It was an excellent example of marquity. I had been overhasty in my deprecation. I owed as much to pew. This box of yours is better worth looking at than I first supposed. Is it to be sold? No, it is not to be sold, nor, he fixed me with his spectacles. Is it to be given away? I have brought it to you for the simple purpose of ascertaining if you have the ingenuity enough to open it. I will engage to open it in two seconds with a hammer. I daresay I will open it with a hammer. The thing is to open without it. Let me see, I began, with the aid of a microscope, to examine the box more closely. I will give you one piece of information, pew, unless I am mistaken the secret lies in one of these little pieces of inlaid wood. You push it, or you press it, or something, and the whole affair flies open. Such was my own first conviction. I am not so sure of it now. I have pressed every separate piece of wood. I have tried to move each piece in every direction. No result has followed. My theory was a hidden spring. But there must be a hidden spring of some sort, unless you are to open it by mere exercise of force. I suppose the box is empty. I thought it was at first, but now I am not so sure of that either. It all depends on the position in which you hold it. Hold it in this position, like this, close to your ear. Have you a small hammer? I took a small hammer. Tap it softly, with the hammer. Don't you notice a sort of reverberation with him? Pew was right. There certainly was something within. Something which seemed to echo back my tapping, almost as if it were a living thing. I mentioned this to Pew. But you don't think that there is something alive inside the box. There can't be. The box must be airtight, probably as much as airtight is an exhausted receiver. How do we know that? How can we tell that no minute inter-sise must have been left for the express purposes of ventilation? I continued tapping with the hammer. I noticed one peculiarity, that it was only when I held the box in a particular position and tapped at a certain spot, there came the answering taps from within. I tell you what it is, Pew. What I hear is the reverberation of some machinery. Do you think so? I'm sure of it. Give the box to me. Pew put the box to his ear. He tapped. It sounds to me like an echoing tick. Trick of some great beetle. Like the noise which a death watch makes, you know? Trust Pew to find a remarkable explanation for a simple fact. If the explanation leans towards the supernatural, so much the more satisfactory to Pew, I knew better. The sound which you hear is merely the throbbing or the trembling of the mechanism with which it is intended that the box should open. The mechanism is placed just where you are tapping it with the hammer. Every tap causes it to jar. Sounds to me like the ticking of a death watch. However, on such subjects trust, I know what you are. My dear Pew, give it an extra hard tap and you will see. He gave it an extra hard tap. The moment he had done so, he started. I've done it now. What have you done? Broken something. I fancy. He listened intensely with his ear to the box. No, it seems all right. And yet I could have sworn I damaged something. I heard it smash. Give me the box. Gave it to me. In my turn I listened. I shook the box. Pew must have been mistaken. Nothing rattled. There was not a sound. The box was as empty as before. I gave a smart tap with the hammer as Pew had done. Then there certainly was a curious sound. To my ear it sounded like the smashing of glass. I wonder if there's anything fragile inside your precious puzzle, Pew. And if so, if we are shivering it by degrees. What is that noise? I lay in bed in a curious condition which is in between sleep and waking. When at last I knew I was awake, I asked myself what it was that had woke me. Suddenly I became conscious that something was making itself audible in the silence of the night. For some seconds I lay and listened. Then I sat up in bed. What is that noise? It was like the tick-tick of some large and unusually clear-toned clock. It might have been a clock had it not been that the sound was varied. Every half-dozen ticks or so by a sort of stifled screech such as might have been uttered by a small creature in an extremity of an anguish. I got out of bed. It was ridiculous to think of sleep during the continuation of that uncanny shrieking. I struck a light. The sound seemed to come from the neighborhood of my dressing table. I went to the dressing table, the lighted match in my hand, and as I did so my eyes fell on Pew's mysterious box. The same instant there issued from the bowels of the box a more uncomfortable shriek than I had heard previously. It took me so completely by surprise that I let the match fall from my hand to the floor. The room was in darkness. I stood, I will not say trembling, listening, considering their volume, to the eerie shrieks I had ever heard. All at once they ceased. Then came the tick-tick-tick again. I struck another match and lit the gas. Pew had left his puzzle box behind him. We had done all we could together to solve the puzzle. He had left it behind to see what I could do with it alone. So much had it grossed my attention that I even brought it into my bedroom in order that I might, before retiring to rest, make a final attempt at the solution of the mystery. Now what possessed the thing? As I stood and looked and listened one thing began to be clear to me that some sort of machinery had been set to motion inside the box. How had it been set in motion was another matter. But the box had been subjected to so much handling, to such pressing and such hammering that it was not strange if, after all, Pew or I had unconsciously hit upon the spring which set the whole thing going. Possibly the mechanism had gotten so rusty that it refused to act all at once. It had hung fire and only after some hours had something or other set the imprisoned motive power free. But what about the screeching? Could there be some living creature concealed within the box? Was I listening to the cries of some small animal in agony? Momentary reflection suggested that the explanation of the one thing was the explanation of the other. Rust. There was the mystery. The same rust which had prevented the mechanism from acting at once was causing the screeching now. The uncanny sounds were caused by nothing more nor less than the want of a drop or two of oil. Such an explanation would not have satisfied Pew. It satisfied me. Picking up the box, I placed it to my ear. I wonder how long this little performance is going to continue. And what is going to happen when it is good enough to cease? I hope, an uncomfortable thought occurred to me, I hope Pew hasn't picked up some pleasant little novelty in the way of an infernal machine. It would be a first-rate joke if he and I had been endeavoring to solve the puzzle of how to set it going. I don't mind owning that as this reflection crossed my mind. I placed Pew's puzzle on the dressing table. The idea did not commend itself to me at all. The box evidently contained some curious mechanism. It might be more curious than comfortable. Possibly some agreeable little device in clockwork. The tick-tick-tick suggested clockwork which had been planned to go a certain time and then, then for all I knew, ignite an explosive and blow up. It would be a charming solution to the puzzle. If it were to explode while I stood there in my night shirt looking on, it is true the box weighed very little. Probably if I had said the whole affair would not have turned the scale at a couple of ounces. But then its very lightness might have been part of the ingenious inventor's game. There are explosives with which one can work very satisfactorily amount of damage with considerably less than a couple of ounces. While I was hesitating, I owned it, whether I had not better immerse Pew's puzzle in a can of water or throw it out the window, or call down Bob with a request to at once remove it to his apartment, both the tick-tick-tick and the screeching ceased, and all within the box was still. If it was going to explode, it was now or never. Instinctively, I moved in the direction of the door. I waited with a certain sense of anxiety. I waited in vain. Nothing happened, not even a renewal of sound. I wish Pew had kept his precious puzzle at home. This sort of thing tries one's nerves. When I thought that I perceived that nothing seemed likely to happen, I returned to the neighborhood of the table. I looked at the box of scants. I tucked it up gingerly. Something might go off at any moment for all I knew. It would be too much of a joke if Pew's precious puzzle exploded in my hand. I shook it doubtfully. Nothing rattled. I held it to my ear. There was not a sound. What had taken place had the clockwork run down and was the machine arranged with such a diabolical ingenuity that a certain interval was required after the clockwork had run down before an explosion would occur or had Russ cause the mechanism again to hang fire. After making all that commotion, the thing might at least come open. I banged the box viciously against the corner of the table. I felt that I would almost rather than an explosion should take place than that nothing should occur. One does not care to be disturbed from one sound slumber in the small hours of the morning for a trifle. I have half a mind to get a hammer and try, as they say in the cookery books, another way. Unfortunately, I'd promised Pew to abstain from using force. I might have shivered the box open with my hammer and then explained that it had fallen, or got trod upon, or sat upon, or something, or so got shattered. Only I was afraid that Pew would not believe me. The man is himself such an untruthful man that he is in a chronic state of suspicion about the truthfulness of others. Well, if you're not going to blow up or open or something, I'll say good night. I gave the box a final wrap with my knuckles and a final shake, replaced it on the table, put out the gas, and returned to bed. I was just sinking again into slumber when that box began again. It was true that Pew had purchased the puzzle, but it was evident that the whole enjoyment of the purchase was destined to be mine. It was useless to think of sleep while that performance was going on. I sat up in bed once more. It strikes me that the puzzle consists in finding out how it is possible to go to sleep with Pew's purchase in your bedroom. This is far better than the old-fashioned prescription of cats on the tiles. It struck me that the noise was distinctly louder than before. This applied both to the tick, tick, tick, and the screeching. Possibly, I told myself as I relighted the gas, the explosion is going to come off this time. I turned to look at the box. There could be no doubt about it, the noise was louder. And if I could trust my eyes, the box was moving, giving a series of little jumps. This might have been an optical delusion, but it seemed to me that each tick gave the box a bound. During the screeches, which sounded more like the cries of an animal in agony of pain even then before, if it did not tilt itself first on one end and then on the other, I shall never be willing to trust the evidence of my own eyes again. And surely the box had increased in size. I could have sworn not only that it increased, but that it was increasing even as I stood there looking on. It had grown, and was still growing both broader and longer and deeper. Pew, of course, would have attributed it to a supernatural agency. There never was a man with such a nose for a ghost. I could picture him occupying my position, shivering in his night shirt, as he beheld that miracle taking place before his eyes. The solution, which at once suggested itself to me, and which would never have suggested itself to Pew, was that the box was fashioned, as it were, in layers, and that the ingenious mechanism it contained was forcing the sides at once both upward and outward. I took it in my hand. I could feel something striking against the bottom of the box, like a tap, tap, tapping of a tiny hammer. This is a pretty puzzle of Pew's. He would say that this is the tapping of a death watch. For my part, I have not much faith in death washes, at hawk genus Omne, but it is certainly a curious tapping. I wonder what is going to happen next. Apparently nothing, except a continuation of those mysterious sounds, that the box had increased in size I had, and have, no doubt whatsoever. I should say that it had increased a good inch in every direction, at least half an inch while I had been looking on. But while I stood, looking its growths was suddenly and perceptibly stayed. It ceased to move. Only the noise continued. I wonder how long it will be before anything worth happening does happen. I suppose something is going to happen. This can't be all this to do for nothing. If it is anything in the infernal machine line, and there is going to be an explosion, I might as well be here to see it. I think I'll have a pipe. I put on my dressing gown, I lit my pipe. I sat and stared at the box. I daresay I sat there for quite 20 minutes when, as before, without any sort of warning, the sound was stilled. Its sudden cessation rather startled me. Has the mechanism again hung fire, or this time is the explosion coming off? It did not come off. Nothing came off. Isn't the box even going to open? It did not open. There was simply silence all at once, and that was all. I sat there in expectation for some moments longer, but I sat for nothing. I rose. I took the box in my hand, and I shook it. This puzzle is a puzzle. I held the box first to one ear, then the other. I gave it several sharp wraps with my knuckles. There was not an answering sound, not even the sort of reverberation with Pew and I had noticed at first. It seemed holower than ever. It was as though the soul of the box was dead. I suppose if I put you down and extinguished the gas and returned to bed in about half an hour or so, just as I'm dropping off to sleep, the performance will be recommend. Perhaps the third time will be lucky, but I was mistaken. There was no third time. When I returned to bed that time, I returned to sleep, and I was allowed to sleep. There was no continuation of the performance, at least so far as I know. For no sooner was I once more between the sheets than I was seized with an irresistible drowsiness. A drowsiness was so mastered me that I, I imagine it must have been instantly, sank into a slumber which lasted till long after the day had dawned. Whether or not any more mysterious sounds issued from the bowels of Pew's puzzle is more than I can tell. If they did, they did not succeed in rousing me. And yet, when at last I did awake, I had a sort of consciousness that my waking had been caused by something strange. What it was, I could not surmise. My own impression was that I had been awakened by the touch of a person's hand, but that impression must have been a mistaken one, because, as I could easily see by looking round the room, there was no one in the room to touch me. It was broad daylight. I looked at my watch. It was nearly 11 o'clock. I'm a pretty late sleeper as a rule, but I do not usually sleep as late as that. That scoundrel Bob would let me sleep all day without thinking it necessary to call me. I was just about to spring out of bed with the intention of ringing the bell so that I might give Bob a piece of my mind for allowing me to sleep so late when my glance fell on the dressing table on which the night before I had placed Pew's puzzle. It had gone. Its absence so took me by surprise that I ran to the table. It had gone, but it had not gone far. It had gone to pieces. There were pieces lying where the box had been. The puzzle had solved itself. The box was open, open with a vengeance, one might say. Like that unfortunate Humpty Dumpty who, so the chroniclers tell us, sat on a wall surely all the king's horses and all the king's men never could put Pew's puzzle together again. The marketery had resolved itself into its components parts. How those parts had ever joined was a mystery. They had laid upon no foundation as is the case with ordinary inlaid work. The several pieces of wood were not only of different shapes and sizes, but they were as thin as the thinnest veneer, yet the box had been formed by simply joining them together. The man who made that box must have been possessed of ingenuity worthy of a better cause. I perceived how the puzzle had been worked. The box had contained an arrangement of springs which, on being released, had expanded themselves in different directions until their mere expansion had rent the box to pieces. There were the springs lying amid the ruin they had caused. There was something else amid the ruin besides those springs. There was a small piece of writing paper. I took it up. On the reverse side of it was written in a minute crabbed hand present for you. What was a present for me? I looked, and not for the first time since I had caught sight of Pew's precious puzzle, could scarcely believe my eyes. There, poised between two upright wires, the bent ends of which held a loft in the air, was either a piece of glass or a crystal. The scrap of writing paper had exactly covered it. I understood what it was when Pew and I had tapped with a hammer that had caused the answering taps to proceed from within, or tapped caused the wires to oscillate, and in these oscillations the crystal, which they had held suspended, had touched the side of the box. I looked again at the piece of paper. A present for you. Was this the present, this crystal? I regarded it intently. It can't be a diamond. The idea was ridiculous, absurd. No man in his senses would place a diamond inside a two-penny, half-penny puzzle box. The thing was as big as a walnut. And yet, I am a pretty good judge of precious stones. If it was not an uncut diamond, it was the best imitation I had seen. I took it up. I examined it closely. The more closely I examined it, the more my wonder grew. It is a diamond. And yet, the idea was too preposterous for credence. Who would present a diamond as big as a walnut with a trumpery puzzle? Besides, all the diamonds which the world contains of that size are almost as well known as the Coenor. If it is a diamond, it is worth heaven only knows what it isn't worth if it is a diamond. I regarded it through a strong pocket lens. As I did so, I could not restrain an exclamation. The world to a china orange, it is a diamond. The words had scarcely escaped my lips, and there came a tapping at the door. Come in, I cried, supposing it was Bob. It was not Bob, it was Pew. Instinctively, I put the lens and the crystal behind my back. The sight of me and my night-shirt, Pew began to shake his head. What hours, Tress? What hours? Why, my dear Tress, I've breakfasted, read the paper and my letters, came all the way from my house here, and you're not up? Don't I look as though I were up? Ah, Tress. Tress, he approached the dressing table, his eye fell upon the ruins. What's this? That's the solution to the puzzle. Have you solved it fairly, Tress? It has solved itself. Our handling and tapping and hammering must have freed the springs, which the box contained, and during the night while I slept, they have caused it to come open. While you slept, dear me, how strange, and what are these? He had discovered the two upright wires on which the crystal had been poised. I suppose they're part of the puzzle. And was there anything in the box? What's this? He picked up the scrap of paper. I had left it on the table. He read what was written on it, a present for you. What's it mean, Tress? Was this in the box? It was. What's it mean about a present? Was there anything in the box besides? Pew. If you will leave the room, I shall be able to dress. I'm not in the habit of receiving quite such early calls, or I should have been prepared to receive you. If you will wait in the next room, I will be with you as soon as I'm dressed. There is a little subject in connection with the box, which I wish to discuss with you. A subject in connection with the box? What is the subject? I will tell you, Pew, when I have performed my toilet. Why can't you tell me now? Do you propose that? Then I should stand here shivering in my shirt, where you are posing at your ease. Thank you, I'm obliged, but I decline. May I ask you once more, Pew, to wait for me in the adjoining apartment? He moved towards the door. When he had taken a couple of steps, he halted. I hope, Tristich, you're going to play no tricks on me? Tricks on you? Is it likely I'm going to play tricks on my oldest friend? When he had gone, he vanished, it seemed to me, with a somewhat doubtful visage. I took the crystal to the window and I drew the blind. I let the sunshine fall on it. I examined it again, closely and minutely, with the aid of my pocket lens. It was a diamond. There could not be any doubt of it. If with my knowledge of stones I was deceived, then I was deceived as never a man had been deceived before. My heart beat faster as I recognized the fact that I was holding in my hand what was, in all probability, a fortune for a man of moderate desires. Of course, Pew knew nothing of what I had discovered, and there was no reason why he should know, not the least. The only difficulty was that if I kept my own counsel and sold the stone and utilized the proceeds of the stale, I should have to invent a story which would account for my sudden accession to fortune. Pew knows almost as much of my affairs as I do of myself. That's the worst of these old friends. When I joined Pew, I found him dancing up and down on the floor like a bear upon hot plates. He scarcely allowed me to put my nose inside the door before attacking me. Tress, give me what was in the box. My dear Pew, how do you know there was something in the box to give you? I know there was. Indeed, if you know there was something in the box, perhaps you will tell me what that something was. He eyed me doubtfully. Then advancing, he laid upon my arm a hand which positively trembled. Tress, you wouldn't play tricks on an old friend. You're right, Pew. I wouldn't, though I believe there have been occasions on which you have had doubts upon the subject. By the way, Pew, I believe I am the oldest friend that you have. I don't know about that. There's Brasher. Brasher? Who's Brasher? You wouldn't compare my friendship to the friendship of such a man as Brasher. Think of the tastes we have in common, you and I. We're both collectors. Yes, we're both collectors. I make my interest yours, and you make your interest mine. Isn't that true, Pew? Tress, what? What was in the box? I'll be frank with you, Pew. If there had been something in the box, would you have been willing to go halves with me in your discovery? Go halves in your discovery, Tress? Give me what was mine, with pleasure, Pew. If you will tell me what is yours. If you don't give me what was in the box, I'll send for the police. Do. Then I'll be able to hand them what was in the box in order that it may be restored to its proper owner. It's proper owner. I'm its proper owner. Excuse me. But I don't understand how that can be, at least until the police have made inquiries. I should say that the proper owner was the person from whom you purchased the box, or more probably the person from whom he purchased it, and by whom, doubtless, it was sold in ignorance or by mistake. Thus, Pew, if you will only send for the police, we shall learn the gratitude of a person of whom we've never heard of in our lives, I for discovering the contents of the box, and you for returning them. As I said this, Pew's face was a study. He gasped for breath. He actually took out his handkerchief to wipe his brow. Tress, I don't think you need to use a tone like that with me. It isn't friendly. What was in the box? Let us understand each other, Pew. If you don't hand over what was in the box to the police, I go halves. Pew began to dance on the floor. What a fool I was to trust you with the box. I knew I couldn't trust you. I said nothing. I turned and rang the bell. What's that for? That, my dear Pew, is for breakfast. And if you desire it, for the police. You know, although you have breakfasted, I haven't. Perhaps while I'm breaking my fast, you would like to summon the representatives of law and order. Bob came in. I ordered breakfast, and then I turned to Pew. Is there anything else you'd like? No, I've breakfasted. It wasn't a breakfast I was thinking. It was of something else. Bob is at your service, if, for instance, you wish to send him on an errand. No, I want nothing. Bob can go. Bob went. Directly he was gone, and Pew turned to me. You shall have half. What was in the box? I shall have half? You shall. I don't think it's necessary that the terms of our little understanding should be expressly embodied in black and white. I fancy that, under the circumstances, I can trust you, Pew. I believe that I am capable of seeing that, in this matter, you don't do me. That was in the box. I held out the crystal between my finger and thumb. What is it? That is what I desire to learn. Let me look at it. You're welcome to look at it where it is. Look at it as long as you like and as closely. Pew leaned over my hand as eyes began to gleam. He is himself not a bad judge of precious stones as Pew. It's stress. It's a diamond. That question I've already asked myself. Let me look at it. It'll be safe with me. It's mine. I immediately put the thing behind my back. Pardon me. It belongs to neither you or me. It belongs in all probability to the person who sold that puzzle to the man from whom you bought it, perhaps some weeping widow, Pew, or hopeless orphan. Think of it. Let us have no further misunderstanding upon that point, my dear old friend. Still, because you are my dear old friend, I'm willing to trust you with this discovery of mine on condition that you don't attempt to remove it from my sight and that you return it to me the moment I require you. You're very hard on me. I made a movement towards my waist-coast pocket. I'll return it to you. I handed him the crystal. And with it, I handed it my pocket lens. With the aid of that glass, I imagine that you will be able to subject it to more cute examination, Pew. He began to examine it through the lens. Directly, he did so. He gave an exclamation. In a few moments, he looked up at me. His eyes were glistening behind his spectacles. I could see he trembled, pressed. It's a diamond, a Brazil diamond. It's worth a fortune. I'm glad you think so. Glad I think so. Don't you think it's a diamond? It appears to be a diamond. Under ordinary conditions, I should say without hesitation that it was a diamond. But when I consider the circumstances of its discovery, I'm driven to doubts. How much did you give for that puzzle, Pew, nine pence? The fellow wanted a shilling, but I gave him nine pence. He seemed content. Nine pence. Does it seem reasonable that we should find a diamond which, if it is a diamond, is the finest stone I ever saw and handled in a nine penny puzzle? It is not as though it ever got into the thing by accident. It had evidently been placed there to be found. And apparently, by anyone who chance to solve the puzzle, witnessed the writing on the scrap of paper. Pew reexamined the crystal. It is a diamond. I'll state my life that it's a diamond. Still, though it be a diamond, I smell a rat. What do you mean? I strongly suspect that the person who placed that diamond inside the puzzle intended to have a joke at the expense of the person who discovered it. What was to be the nature of the joke is more than I can say at present. But I should like to have a bet with you that the man who compounded that puzzle was an ingenious practical joker. I may be wrong, Pew, we shall see. But until I have proved to the contrary, I don't believe that the maddest man ever lived would throw away a diamond worth, apparently, shall we say, a thousand pounds? A thousand pounds! This diamond is worth a good deal more than a thousand pounds. Well, that only makes my case stronger. I don't believe that the maddest man had ever lived would throw away a diamond worth more than a thousand pounds with such other wantonness as seemed to have characterized in the action of the original owner of the stone, which I found in your nine penny puzzle, Pew. There have been some eccentric characters in the world, some very eccentric characters. However, as you say, we shall see. I fancy that I know someone who would be quite willing to have such a diamond as this, and moreover, would be willing to pay a fair price for its possession. I will take it to him and see what he says. Pew, hand me back that diamond. My dear Tress, I was only going to Bob came in with the breakfast tray. Pew, you will either hand that back to me at once, or Bob shall summon the representatives of law and order. He handed me the diamond. I sat down to breakfast with a hearty appetite. Pew stood and scowled at me. Joseph Tress is my solemn conviction, and I have no hesitation in saying so in plain English that you're a thief. My dear Pew, it seems to me that we show of every promise of becoming a couple of thieves. Don't bracket me with you. Not at all. You are worse than I. It is you who declined to return the contents of the box to its proper owner. Put it to yourself. You have some common sense, my dear old friend. Do you suppose that a diamond worth more than a thousand pounds is to be honestly bought for a nine pence? He resumed his old trick of dancing around the room. I was a fool ever to let you have the box. I ought to have known better than to have trusted you, goodness knows. You have given me sufficient cause to mistrust you over and over again. Your character is only too notorious. You have plundered friend and fall alike, friend and fall alike. As for the rubbish which you call your collection, nine-tenths of it, I know as a positive fact you have stolen out and out. Who stole my Sir Walter Raleigh pipe? Wasn't it a manly pew? Look here, Joseph Tress. I'm looking. Oh, it's no good talking to you, not in the least. You're dead to all the promptings of conscience. May I inquire, Mr. Tress, what it is you propose to do? I propose to do nothing, except some of the representatives of law and order. Failing that, my dear pew, I had some faint, vague, very vague idea of taking the co-intents of your nine-penny puzzle to a certain firm in Hattengarden who are dealers in precious stones and to learn from them if they are disposed to give anything for it, and if so, what? I shall come with you, with pleasure, on condition that you pay the cab. I pay the cab? I'll pay half, not at all. You either pay the whole fare, or else I will have one cab and you'll have another. It's a three-chilling cab fare from here to Hattengarden. If you propose to share my cab, it'll be so good as to hand over that three shillings before we start. He gasped, but he handed over the three shillings. There are a few things I enjoy so much as getting money out of pew. On the road to Hattengarden, we wrangled nearly all the way. I own that I feel certain satisfaction in irritating pew. He is such an irritable man. He wanted to know what I thought we should get for the diamond. You can't expect to get much for the co-intents of a nine-penny puzzle, not even the price of a cab fare, pew. He eyed me, but for some minutes he was silent, then he began again. Tress, I don't think we ought to let it go for less than 5,000 pounds. Seriously, pew, I doubt whether, when the whole affair has ended, we shall get 5,000 pens for it, or for that matter, 5,000 farthings. Why not? Why not? It's a magnificent stone, magnificent. I'll stake my life on it. I tapped my breast with the tips of my fingers. There's a warning voice within my breast that ought to be in yours, pew. Something tells me, perhaps it is the unusually strong vein of common sense which I possess, that the contents of your nine-penny puzzle will be found to be in a magnificent dew, an ingenious practical joke, my friend. I don't believe it, but I think he did. At any rate, I had unsettled the foundations of his faith. We entered the Hattengarden office side-by-side, in his anxiety not to let me get before him, pew actually clung to my arm. The office was divided into two parts, by a counter which ran from wall to wall. I advanced to a man who stood on the other side of this counter. I want to sell you a diamond. We want to sell you a diamond, interpolated pew. I turned to pew. I fixed him with my glance. I want to sell you a diamond. Here it is. What will you give me for it? Taking the crystal from my waistcoat pocket, I handed it to man on the other side of the counter. Directly, he got it between his fingers and saw that it was that he had got. I noticed a sudden gleam came into his eyes. This is, this is a rather fine stone. Pew nudged my arm. I told you so. Paid no attention to pew. What will you give me for it? Do you mean, what will I give you for it, cashed down upon the nail? Just so. What will you give me for it, cashed down upon the nail? The man turned the crystal over and over in his fingers. Well, that's rather a large order. We don't often get a chance of buying such a stone as this across the counter. What do you say to, well, to 10,000 pounds? 10,000 pounds. It was beyond my wildest imaginings. Pew gasped. He lurched against the counter. 10,000 pounds, he echoed. The man on the other side glanced at him, I thought, a little curiously. If you can give me references or satisfy me in any way as to your bona fides, I'm prepared to give you for this diamond an open check for 10,000 pounds or if you prefer it, the cash instead. I stared. I was not accustomed to see business transacted on quite such lines as those. We'll take it, murmured Pew. I believe he was too much over comfort by his feelings to do more than murmur. I interposed. My dear sir, you will excuse my sayings that you arrived very rapidly at your conclusion. In your first place, how can you make sure that it is a diamond? The man behind the counter smiled. I should be very ill-fitted for the position which I hold if I could not tell a diamond directly I get sight of it, especially such a stone as this. But have you no tests you can apply? We have tests which we can apply in cases when doubt exists, but in this case, there is no doubt whatsoever. I am as sure that this is a diamond as I am sure that it is air I breathe. However, there is a test. There was a wheel close by the speaker. It was worked by a treedle. It was more like a superior sort of traveling tinker's grindstone than anything else. The man behind the counter put his foot upon the treadle. The wheel began to revolve. He brought the crystal into contact with the swiftly revolving wheel. There was a shh, and instantly his hand was empty. The crystal had vanished into the air. Good heavens, he gasped. I never saw such a look of amazement on a human countenance before. It splintered, postscript. It was a diamond, although it had splintered. In that fact lay the point of the joke. The man behind the counter had not been wrong. Examination of such dust, it could be collected, proved that fact beyond a doubt. It was declared by experts that the diamond, at some period of its history, had been suggested to intense and continued heat. The result had been to make it as brittle as glass. There could be no doubt that its original owner had been an expert too. He knew where he had got it from and he probably knew what it had endured. He was aware that from a mercantile's point of view it was a worthless, so it could never have been cut. So having a turn for humor of particular kind, he had devoted days and weeks and possibly months to the construction of that puzzle. He had placed the diamond inside and had enjoyed in anticipation and in imagination the elnish-dar visions of the lucky finder. Pew Bay blamed me for the catastrophe. He said and still says that if I had not in a measure and quite gratuitously insisted on the test, the man behind the counter would have been satisfied with the evidence of his organs of vision and we should have been richer by 10,000 pounds. But I did satisfy my conscience with the reflection that what I did at any rate was honest, though at the same time I am perfectly aware that such a reflection gives Pew no sort of satisfaction. End of section 17. Section 18 of Library of the World's Best Mystery and Detective Stories, volume three. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Library of the World's Best Mystery and Detective Stories, volume three by Julian Hawthorne, editor. Section 18, The Great Valdez Sapphire by Anonymous. I know more about it than anyone else in the world. It's present owner not accepted. I can give its whole history from the single ease who found it, the Spanish adventurer who stole it, the cardinal who bought it, the pope who graciously accepted it, the favored son of the church who received it, the gay and giddy duchess who ponded it down to the eminent prelate who now holds it in trust as a family heirloom. It will occupy a chapter to itself in my forthcoming work on historic stones, where full details of its weight, size, color, and value may be found. At present I am going to relate an incident in its history which for obvious reasons will not be published, which in fact I trust the reader will consider related in strict confidence. I had never seen the stone itself when I began to write about it and it was not till one evening last spring while staying with my nephew Sir Thomas Acton that I came within measurable distance of it. A dinner party was impending and at my instigation the Bishop of North Church and Miss Panton, his daughter and heiress were among the invited guests. The dinner was a particularly good one. I remember that distinctly. In fact, I felt myself partly responsible for it having engaged the new cook, a talented young Italian, pupil of the admirable old chef at my club. We had gone over the menu carefully together with a result refreshing in its novelty but not so daring as to disturb the minds of the innocent country guests who were bitten there too. The first spoonful of soup was reassuring and I looked to the end of the table to exchange a congratulatory glance with Lita. What was amiss? No response. Her pretty face was flushed, her smile constrained. She was talking with quite unnecessary impressment to her neighbor, Sir Harry Lander. Though Lita is one of those few women who understand the importance of letting a man settle down tranquilly and with an undisturbed mind to the business of dining, allowing no topic of serious interest to come on before the releve and reserving more conversational brilliancy for the entremets. Guests all right? No disappointments. I had gone through the list with her selecting just the right people to be asked to meet the landers, our new neighbors. Not a mere cumbers country gathering, nor yet a showy imported party from town, but a skillful blending of both. Had anything happened already? I had been late for dinner and missed the arrivals in the drawing room. It was Lita's fault. She has got a way of coming into my room and putting the last touches to my toilet. I let her, for I am doubtful of myself nowadays after many years dependence on the best of valets. Her taste is generally beyond dispute, but today she had indulged in a feminine vaggery which provoked me and made me late for dinner. Are you going to wear your sapphire, Uncle Paul? She cried in a tone of dismay. Oh, why not the ruby? You would have your way about the table decorations. I gently reminded her. With that service of crown derby wraps and orchids, the ruby would look absolutely barbaric. Now if you would have had the limges set, white candles and a yellow silk center. Oh, but I am so disappointed. I wanted the bishop to see your ruby or one of your engraved gems. My dear, it is on the bishop's account I put this on. You know his daughter is heiress of the great Valdez sapphire. Of course she is. And when he has the charge of a stone three times as big as yours, what's the use of wearing it? The ruby, dear Uncle Paul, please? She was desperately in earnest, I could see. And considering the obligations which I am supposed to be under to her and Tom, it was but a little matter to yield. But it involved a good deal of extra trouble. Steads, slave links, watch guard, all carefully selected to go with the sapphire had to be changed. The emerald which I chose as a compromise requiring more florid accompaniments of a deeper turn of gold. And the dinner hour struck as I replaced my jewel case. The one relic left me of a one's handsome fortune in my fireproof safe. The emerald looked very well that evening, however. I kept my eyes upon it for comfort when Miss Panton proved trying. She was a lean, yellow, dictatorial young person with no conversation. I spoke of her father's celebrated sapphires. My sapphires, she amended sourly, though I am legally debarred from making any profitable use of them. She furthermore informed me that she viewed them as useless gods which ought to be disposed of for the benefit of the heathen. I gave the subject up, and while she discoursed on the work of the Blue Ribbon Army among the Bosge's men's, I tried to understand a certain dislocation in the arrangement of the table. Surely we were more or less in number than we should be. Opposite side, all right. Who was extra on ours? I leaned forward, lady Landor on one side of Tom, on the other, who? I caught glimpses of plumes, pink and green, knotting over a dinner plate, and beneath them a pink nose and a green visage, with a nutcracker chin altogether unknown to me. A sharp gray eye shot a wide glance down the table and caught me peeping, and I retreated, having only marked in addition two claw-like hands, with pointed ruffles and a mass of brilliant rings, making good play with a knife and fork. Who was she? At intervals a high acid voice could be heard addressing Tom, and a laugh that made me shudder. It had the quality of the scream of a bird of prey, or the yell of a jackal. I had heard that sort of laugh before, and it always made me feel like a defenseless rabbit. Every time it sounded, I saw Lata's fan flutter more furiously, and her manner grew more nervously animated. Poor dear girl, I never in all my recollection wished a dinner at an end so earnestly, so as to assure her of my support and sympathy, though without the faintest conception my either should be required. The ices at last. The menu card folded in two was laid beside me. I read it unobserved. Keep the B from joining us in the drawing room. The B? The bishop, of course, with pleasure. But why, and how? That's the question, never mind why. Could I lure him into the library, the billiard room, the conservatory? I doubted it, and I doubted still more what I should do with him when I got him there. The bishop is a grand and stately ecclesiastic of the medieval type, broad-chested, deep-voiced, marshal of bearing. I could picture him charging mace in hand at the head of his vassals, or delivering over a dissenter of the period to the rack and thumbscrew, but not pottering among rare additions, tall copies and girlier bindings, not condescending to a quiet cigar among the tree ferns and orchids. Leta must and should be obeyed. I swore, nevertheless, even if I were driven to lock the door in the fearless old fashion of a bygone day, and declare I'd shoot any man who left while a drop remained in the bottles. The ladies were rising. The lady at the head of the line smirked and nodded her pink plumes coquettishly at Tom, while her hawk's eyes roved keen and predatory over us all. She stopped suddenly, creating a block and confusion. Ah, the dear bishop, you there and I never saw you. You must come and have a nice long chat presently. Bye-bye. She shook her fanatim over my shoulder and tripped off. Leta, passing me last, gave a look of profound despair. Lady Cartwitchet, somebody exclaimed. I couldn't believe my eyes. Thought she was dead or in penal servitude. Never should have expected to see her here, said someone else, behind me confidentially. What Cartwitchet? Not the mother of the Cartwitchet who? Just so, the Cartwitchet who? Tom assented with a shrug. We needn't go farther, as she's my guest. Just my luck. I met them at Buxton, thought them a commonly good company. In fact, Cartwitchet laid me under a great obligation about a horse, I was nearly led in for buying, and gave them a general invitation here as one does, you know. Never expected her to turn up with her luggage this afternoon just before dinner, to stay a week or a fortnight if Cartwitchet can join her. A groan of sympathy ran round the table. It can't be helped. I told you this just to show that I shouldn't have asked you here to meet this sort of people of my own free will. But as it is, please say no more about them. The subject was not dropped by any means, and I took care that it should not be. At our end of the table, one story after another went buzzing round, Sata Vos, out of deference to Tom, but perfectly audible. Cartwitchet, ah yes, mixed up in that Rawlings divorce case, wasn't he? A bad lot, turned out of the Dragoon guards for cheating at cards, or picking pockets, or something. Remember the row at the Cerulean Club? Scandalous exposure, and that forged letter business. Oh, that was the mother. Prosecution hushed up somehow, all to be serving her fourteen years, and that business of poor ferrers, the banker, got hold of some of his secrets and blackmailed him till he blew his brains out. It was so exciting that I clean forgot the bishop, till a low gasp at my elbow startled me. He was lying back in his chair, his mighty shaven jowl aghastly white, his fierce imperious eyebrows drooping limp over his fish-like eyes, his splendid figure shrunk and contracted. He was trying with a shaken hand to pour out wine, that a canter clattered against the glass and the wines spilled on the cloth. I'm afraid you find the room too warm, shall we go into the library? He rose hastily and followed me like a lamb. He recovered himself once we got into the hall, and affably rejected all my proffers of brandy and soda, medical advice, everything else my limited experience could suggest. He only demanded his carriage directly, and that Miss Panton should be summoned forthwith. I made the best use, I could, of the time left me. I'm uncommonly sorry you do not feel equal to staying a little longer, my lord. I counted on showing you my few trifles of precious stones, the salvage from the wreck of my possessions, nothing in comparison with your own collection. The bishop clasped his hand over his heart. His breath came short and quick. A return of that dizziness, he explained with a faint smile. You are thinking of the valdez sapphire, are you not? Someday, he went on with forced composure, I may have the pleasure of showing it to you, it is at my bankers just now. Miss Panton's steps were heard in the hall. You are well known as a connoisseur, Mr. Acton. He went on hurriedly. Is your collection valuable? If so, keep it safe. Don't trust a ring off your hand, or the key of your jewel case out of your pocket till the house is clear again. The words rushed from his lips in an impetuous whisper. He gave me a meaning glance and departed with his daughter. I went back to the drawing room, my head swimming with bewilderment. What? The dear bishop gone? Screamed Lady Cartwichet from the central ottoman where she sat, surrounded by most of the gentlemen, all apparently well entertained by her conversation. And I wanted to talk over old times with him so badly. His poor wife was my greatest friend. Mira Montanero, daughter of the great banker, you know. It's not possible that the miserable little prig is my poor Myra's girl. The heiress of all the Montaneros in a black lace gown with two pens. When I think of her mother's beauty and her toilets, does she ever wear the sapphires? Has anyone ever seen her in them? 11 large stones in a lovely antique setting and the great Valdes sapphire, worth thousands and thousands for the pendant. No one replied. I wanted to get a rise out of the bishop tonight. It used to make him so mad when I wore this. She fumbled among the laces at her throat and clawed out a pendant that hung to a velvet band around her neck. I fairly gasped when she removed her hand. A sapphire of irregular shape flashed out its blue lightning on us. Such a stone! A true rich cornflower blue, even by that wretched artificial light with soft, velvety depths of color and dazzling clearness of tint in its lights and shades. A stone to remember. I stretched out my hand involuntarily, but Lady Cartwitch drew back with a coquettish squeal. No, no! You mustn't look any closer. Tell me what you think of it now. Isn't it pretty? Superb! Was all I could ejaculate, staring at the azure splendor of that miraculous jewel in a sort of trance. She gave a shrill cackling laugh of mockery. The great Mr. Acton taken in by a bit of play, royal gimcrackery. What an advertisement for Bogart at sea. They are perfect artists and frauds. Don't you remember their stand at the first Paris exhibition? They had imitations there of every celebrated stone, but I never expected anything made by man could delude Mr. Acton, never. And she went off into another mocking cackle and all the idiots round her, ha hald, knowingly, as if they had seen the joke all along. I was too bewildered to reply, which was lucky on the whole. I suppose I mustn't tell why I came to give quite a big sum and ranks for this. She went on, tapping her closed lips with her closed fan and cocking her eye at us all like a parrot wanting to be coaxed to talk. It's a queer story. I didn't want to hear her anecdote, especially as I saw she wanted to tell it. What I did want was to see that pendant again. She had thrust it back among her laces, only the loop which held it to the velvet being visible. It was set with three small sapphires and even from a distance, I clearly made them out to be imitations and poor ones. I felt a queer thrill of mistrust. Was the large stone no better? Could I, even for an instant, have been dazzled by a sham and a sham of that quality? The events of the evening had flurried and confused me. I wished to think them over in quiet. I would go to bed. My rooms at the manor are the best in the house. Lita would have it so. I must explain their position for a reason to be understood later. My bedroom is in the southeast angle of the house. It opens on one side into a sitting room in the east corridor, the rest of which is taken up by the suit of rooms occupied by Tom and Lita and on the other side into my bathroom, the first room in the south corridor, where the principal gas chambers are, to one of which it was originally the dressing room. Passing this room, I noticed a couple of housemates preparing it for the night and discovered with a shiver that Lady Cartwichet was to be my next door neighbor. It gave me a turn. The bishop's strange warning must have unnerved me. I was perfectly safe from her ladyship. The disused door into her room was locked and the key safe on the housekeeper's bunch. It was also undiscoverable on her side, the recess in which it stood being completely filled by a large wardrobe. On my side hung a thick soundproof portiere. Nevertheless, I resolved not to use that room while she inhabited the next one. I removed my possessions, fastened the door of communication with my bedroom and dragged a heavy ottoman across it. Then I stowed away my emerald in my strong box. It is built into the wall of my sitting room and masked by the lower part of an old carved oak bureau. I put away even the rings I wore habitually, keeping out only an inferior cat's eye for a workaday wear. I had just made all safe when Lita tapped at the door and came in to wish me good night. She looked flushed in her rest and ready to cry. Uncle Paul, she began, I want you to go up to town at once and stay away till I send for you. My dear, I was too amazed to expostulate. We've got a pestilence among us, she declared, her foot tapping the ground angrily. And the least we can do is to go into quarantine. Oh, I'm so sorry and so ashamed. The poor bishop, I'll take good care that no one else shall meet that woman here. You did your best for me, Uncle Paul, and managed admirably, but it was all no use. I hoped against hope that what between the dusk of the drawing room before dinner and being put at opposite ends of the table we might get through without a meeting. But my dear, explain. Why shouldn't the bishop and Lady Cartridge meet? Why is it worse for him than anyone else? Why, I thought everybody had heard of that dreadful wife of his who nearly broke his heart. If he married her for her money, it served him right. But Lady Lander says she was very handsome and really in love with him at first. Then Lady Cartridge had got hold of her and led her into all sorts of mischief. She left her husband. He was only a rector with a country living in those days and went to live in town, got into a horrid fast set, and made herself notorious. You must have heard of her. I heard of her sapphires, my dear, but I was in Brazil at the time. I wish you had been at home. You might have found her out. She was furious because her husband refused to let her wear the great Maldes sapphire. It had been in the Montenero family for some generations, and her father settled it first on her and then on her little girl, the bishop being trustee. He felt obliged to take away the little girl and send her off to be brought up by some old aunts in the country, and he locked up the sapphire. Lady Cartridge tells as a splendid joke how they got the copy made in Paris, and it did just as well for the people to stare at. No wonder the bishop hates the very name of the stone. How long will she stay here? I asked Ismaili. Till Lord Cartridge, it can come and escort her to Paris to visit some American friends. Goodness knows when that will be. Do you go up to town, Uncle Paul? I refuse indignantly. The very least I could do was to stand by my poor young relatives in their troubles and help them through. I did so. I wore that inferior cat's eye for six weeks. It is a time I cannot think of even now without a shutter. The more I saw of that terrible old woman, the more I detested her, and we saw a very great deal of her. Lata kept her word and neither accepted nor gave invitations all that time. We were cut off from all society but that of the old General Fairford, who would go anywhere and meet anyone to get a rubber after dinner. The doctor sporting widower and the dooberlies, a giddy, rather rackety young couple who had taken the dower house for a year. Lady Cartridge seemed perfectly content. She reveled in the soft living and good fare of the manor house, the drives in Lata's big baroche and Dominico's dinners, as one to whom short commons were not unknown. She had a hungry way of grabbing and grasping at everything she could, the shilling she wanted whisked, the best fruit at dessert, the postage stamps in a library ink stand. That was infinitely suggestive. Sometimes I could have pitied her. She was so greedy, so spiteful, so friendless. She always made me think of some wicked old pirate putting into a peaceful port to provision and repair his battered old hulk, obliged to live on friendly terms with the natives, but his paradical old nostrils a sniff were plunder and his piratical old soul longing to be off-morating once more. When would that be? Not till the arrival in Paris of her distinguished American friends, of whom we heard a great deal. Charming people, the Buckums of Chicago, the American branch of the English bowchamps, you know, they seemed to be taking an unconscionable time to get there. She would have insisted on being driven over to North Church to call the palace, but that the bishop was understood to be holding confirmations at the other end of the diocese. I was alone in the house one afternoon, sitting by my window, toying with the key of my safe, and wondering whether I dare treat myself to a peep at my treasures, when a suspicious movement in the park below caught my attention. A black figure certainly dodged from behind one tree to the next, and then into the shadow of the park pailing instead of keeping to the footpath. It looked queer. I caught up my field glass and marked him at one point, where he was bound to come into the open for a few steps. He crossed the strip of turf with giant strides and got into cover again, but not quick enough to prevent my recognizing him. It was great heavens, the bishop. In a soft hat pulled over his forehead, with a long cloak and a big stick, he looked like a poacher. Guided by some mysterious instinct, I hurried to meet him. I opened the conservatory door, and in he rushed like a hunted rabbit. Without explanation I led him up the white staircase to my room, where he dropped into a chair and wiped his face. You are astonished, Mr. Acton, he panted. I will explain directly, thanks. He tossed off the glass of brandy I had poured out without waiting for the qualifying soda and looked better. I am in serious trouble, you can help me. I've had a shock today, a grievous shock. He stopped and tried to pull himself together. I must trust you implicitly, Mr. Acton, I have no choice. Tell me what you think of this. He drew a case from his breast pocket and opened it. I promised you should see the Valdez sapphire, look there. The Valdez sapphire, a great big shining lump of blue crystal, flawless and of perfect color, that was all. I took it up, breathed on it, drew out my magnifier, looked at it in one light and another. What was wrong with it? I could not say. Nine experts out of ten would undoubtedly have pronounced the stone genuine. I, by virtue of some mysterious instinct, that has hitherto always guided me aright, was the unlucky tenth. I looked at the bishop. His eyes met mine. There was no need of spoken word between us. Has Lady Cartwichet shown you her sapphire? Was his most unexpected question. She has? Now Mr. Acton, on your honor, as a connoisseur and a gentleman, which of the two is the Valdez? Not this one. I could say not else. You were my last hope. He broke off and dropped his face on his folded arms with a groan that shook the table on which he rested while I stood, dismayed at myself, for having let so hasty a judgment escape me. He lifted a ghastly countenance to me. She vowed she would see me ruined and disgraced. I made her my enemy by crossing some of her schemes once, and she never forgives. She will keep her word. I shall appear before the world as a fraudulent trustee. I can neither produce the valuable confine to my charge nor make the loss good. I have only an incredible story to tell. He dropped his head and groaned again. Who will believe me? I will for one. Ah, you! Yes, you know her. She took my wife from me, Mr. Acton. Heaven only knows what the hold was that she had over Pormyra. She encouraged her to set me at defiance and eventually to leave me. She was answerable for all the scandalous folly and extravagance of Pormyra's life in Paris. Spare me the telling of the story. She left her at last to die alone and uncared for. I reached my wife to find her dying of a fever from which Lady Cartwichet and her crew had fled. She was raving in delirium and died without recognizing me. Some trouble she had been in, which I must never know oppressed her. At the very last she roused from a long stupor and spoke to the nurse. Tell him to get this half-fire back. She stole it. She has robbed my child. Those were her last words. The nurse understood no English and treated them as wandering. But I heard them and knew she was sane when she spoke. What did you do? What could I do? I saw Lady Cartwichet, who laughed at me and defied me to make her confessor to Scorch. I took the pendant to more than one eminent jeweler on pretense of having the setting seen, too. And all have examined and admired without giving a hint of their being anything wrong. I allowed a celebrated mineralogist to see it. He gave no sign. Perhaps they are right and we are wrong. No, no, listen. I heard of an old Dutchman celebrated for his imitations. I went to him, and he told me at once that he had been allowed by Montanero to copy the Valdez, setting and all, for the Paris exhibition. I showed him this, and he claimed it for his own work at once and pointed out his private mark upon it. You must take your magnifier to find it, a Greek beta. He told me that he had sold it to Lady Cartwichet more than a year ago. It is a terrible position. It is. My co-trustee died lately. I have never dared to have another appointed. I am bound to hand over the sapphire to my daughter on her marriage if her husband consents to take the name of Montanero. The bishop's face was ghastly pale and the moisture started on his brow. I racked my brain for some word of comfort. Miss Panton may never marry. But she will, he shouted. That is, the blow that has been dealt me today. My chaplain, actually my chaplain, tells me that he is going out as a temperance missionary to equatorial Africa and has the assurance to add that he believes my daughter is not indisposed to accompany him. His consummating wrath acted as a momentary stimulant. He sat upright, his eyes flashing in his brows' thunderous. I felt for that chaplain. Then he collapsed miserably. The sapphires will have to be produced, identified, and revalued. How shall I come out of it? Think of the disgrace, the ripping up of old scandals. Even if I were to compound with Lady Cardwigette, the sum she hinted at was too monstrous. She wants more than my money. Help me, Mr. Acton, for the sake of your own family interests, help me. I beg your pardon, family interests? I don't understand. If my daughter is childless, her next of kin is poor Marmaduke Panton, who is dying at Cannes, not married, or likely to marry, and failing him, your nephew, Sir Thomas Acton, succeeds. My nephew Tom, Lita, or Lita's baby, might come to be the possible inheritor of the great Valdez Sapphire. The blood rushed to my head as I looked at the great shining swindle before me. What diabolical jugglery was at work when the exchange was made? I demanded fiercely. It must have been on the last occasion of her wearing the sapphires in London. I ought never to have let her out of my sight. You must put a stop to Miss Panton's marriage in the first place. I pronounced it autocratically as he could have done himself. Not to be thought of, he admitted helplessly. Myra has my force of character. She knows her rights, and she will have her jewels. I want you to take charge of the thing for me. If it's in the house, she'll make me produce it. She'll inquire at the bankers. If you have it, we can gain time, if but for a day or two. He broke off. Carriage wheels were crashing on the gravel outside. We looked at one another in consternation. Flight was imperative. I hurried him downstairs and out of the conservatory just as the doorbell rang. I think we both lost our heads in the confusion. He shoved the case into my hands, and I pocketed it, without a thought of the awful responsibility I was incurring, and saw him disappear into the shelter of the friendly knight. When I think of what my feelings were that evening, of my murderous hatred of that smirking, gesting Jezebel, who said opposite me at dinner, my wrathful indignation at the thought of the poor little expected heir, defrauded heir his birth, of the crushing contempt I felt for myself and the bishop as a pair of witless idiots, unable to see our way out of the dilemma, all this was boiling and surging through my soul. I can only wonder, Domenico having given himself a holiday in the kitchen maid, doing her worst and wickedest, that gal toward jaundice did not put an end to this story at once. Uncle Paul. Leta was looking her sweetest when she tripped into my room next morning. I have a news for you. She, pointing a delicate forefinger in the direction of the corridor, is going. Her bookums have reached Paris at last, and sent for her to join them at the Grand Hotel. I was thunderstruck. The longed-for deliverance had but come to remove hopelessly and forever out of my reach, Lady Cartwichet and the great Valdez Sapphire. Why aren't you overjoyed? I am. We are going to celebrate the event by a dinner party. Tom's hospitable soul is vexed by the lack of entertainment we had provided her. We must ask the Brownleys some day or other, and they will be delighted to meet anything in the way of a ladieship, or such smart folks as the Duberly Parkers. Then we may as well have the Blumfields and air that awful modern savoury's dessert service she gave us when we were married. I had no objection to make, and she went on rubbing her soft cheek against my shoulder, like the purring little cat she was. Now I want you to do something to please me, and Mrs. Blumfield. She has set her heart on seeing your rubies, and though I know you hate her about as much as you do that savoury, China. Why, where my rubies with that? I won't. I'll tell you what I will do though. I've got some carbuncles as big as prize gooseberries, a whole set. Then you have only to put those Bohemian glass vases and cantalabra on the table, and let your gardener do his worst with his great forced, setless vulgar blooms, and we shall all be in keeping. Later pouted. An idea struck me. Or I'll do as you wish, on one condition. You get Lady Cartwitchet to wear her big sapphire, and don't tell her I wish it. I lived through the next few days as one in some evil dream. The sapphires, like twin spectres, haunted me day and night. Was ever man so tantalized? To hold the shadow and see the substance dangled temptingly within reach. The bishop made no sign of ridding me of my unwelcome charge, and the thought of what might happen in a case of burglary, fire, earthquake, made me start and tremble at all sorts of inopportune moments. I kept faith with Leta, and reluctantly produced my beautiful rubies on the night of her dinner-party. Emerging from my room, I came full upon Lady Cartwitchet in the corridor. She was dressed for dinner, and at her throat, I caught the blue gleam of the great sapphire. Leta had kept faith with me. I don't know what I stammered in reply to her ladyship's remarks. My whole soul was absorbed in the contemplation of the intoxicating loveliness of the gem. That? A palae royal deception. Incredible. My fingers twitched. My breath came short in fierce with a lust of possession. She must have seen the covetous glare in my eyes. A look of gratified, spiteful complacency overspread her features, as she swept on ahead and descended the stairs before me. I followed her to the drawing-room door. She stopped suddenly, and, murmuring something unintelligible, hurried back again. Everybody was assembled there that I expected to see, with an addition, and not a welcome one by the look of Tom's face. He stood on the hearth-rug conversing with a great, hawking, high-shouldered fellow, sallow-faced, with a heavy mustache and drooping eyelids, from the corners of which flashed out a sudden suspicious look as I approached, which lighted up into a greedy one, as it rested on my rubies, and seemed unaccountably familiar to me, till Lady Cartwitchet, tripping past me, exclaims, He has come at last, my naughty, naughty boy. Mr. Acton, this is my son, Lord Cartwitchet. I broke off short in the midst of my polite acknowledgments, to stare blankly at her. The sapphire was gone. A great guilt cross, with a scotch pebble like an acid drop, was her sole decoration. I had to put my pen into way, she exclaimed confidentially. The clasp had got broken somehow. I didn't believe a word. Lord Cartwitchet contributed little to the general entertainment at dinner, but fell into confidential talk with Mrs. Duprely Parker. I caught a few unintelligible remarks across the table. They referred, I've subsequently discovered, to the lady's little book on North Church races, and I've recollected that the spring meeting was on, and tomorrow, Cup Day. After dinner there was great talk about getting up a party to go to General Fairfors' drag. Lady Cartwitchet was an estus'es, and tried to coax me into joining. Lita declined positively. Tom accepted sockily. The look in Lord Cartwitchet's eye, returned to my mind as I locked out my rupees that night. It made him look so like his mother. I looked around my fastenings with unusable care. Safe in closets and desks and doors, I tried them all. Coming at last to the bathroom, it opened at once. It was the housemaids doing. She had evidently taken advantage of my having abandoned the room to give it a thorough spring cleaning, and I anathematized her. The furniture was all piled together and veiled with sheets. The carpet and felt curtain were gone, and there were new brooms about. As I peered around, a voice close at my ear made me jump. Lady Cartwitchet's. I tell you I have nothing, not a penny. I shall have to borrow my train fare before I can leave this. They'll be glad enough to lend it. Not only had the portiere been removed, but the door behind it had been unlocked and left open for convenience of dusting behind the wardrobe. I might as well have been in the bedroom. Don't tell me. I recognized Cartwitchet's growl. You've not been here all this time for nothing. You've been collecting for a Kilburn cot, or getting subscriptions for the distressed Irish landlords. I know you. Now I'm not going to see myself ruined for the want of a paltry hundred or so. I tell you the cult is a dead certainty. If I could have got a thousand or two on him last week, we might have ended our dog day's millionaires. Hand over what you can. You've money's worth, if not money. Where's that sapphire you stole? I didn't. I can show you the receded bill. All I possess is honestly come by. What could you do with it, even if I gave it to you? You couldn't sell it as the Valdez, and you can't get it cut up as you might if it were real. If it's only bogus, why are you always in such a flutter about it? I'll do something with it, never fear. Hand over. I can't. I haven't got it. I had to raise something on it before I left town. Will you swear it's not in that wardrobe? I dare say you will. I mean to see. Give me those keys. I heard a struggle and a jingle, and the wardrobe door must have been flung open. For a streak of light, struck through a crack in the wood of the back. Creeping close and peeping through, I could see an awful sight. Lady Cartwichet in a flannel wrapper, minus hair, teeth, complexion, pointing a skinny forefinger that quivered with rage at her son, who was out of the range of my vision. Stop that, and throw those keys down here directly, or I'll rouse the house. Sir Thomas is a magistrate, and will lock you up as soon as look at you. She clutched at the bell-rope as she spoke. Elsewhere I'm in danger of my life from you, and give you in charge. Yes, and when you're in prison, I'll keep you there till you die. I've often thought I'd do it. How about the hotel robberies last summer at Cow's, eh? Mightn't the police be grateful for a hint or two? And how about... The keys fell with a crash on the bed, accompanied by some bad language in an apologetic tone, and the door slammed too. I crept trembling to bed. This new and horrible complication of the situation filled me with dismay. Lord Cartwichet's wolfish glance at my rubies took a new meaning. They were safe enough, I believed, but the sapphire. If he disbelieved his mother, how long would she be able to keep it from his clutches? Then she had some plot of her own, of which the bishop would eventually be the victim, I did not doubt. Or why had she not made her bargain with him long ago? But supposing she took fright, lost her head, allowed her son to rest the jewel from her, or gave consent to its being mutilated, divided, I lay in a cold perspiration till morning. My terrors haunted me all day. They were with me at breakfast time when Lady Cartwichet, tripping in, smiling, made a last attempt to induce me to accompany her and keep her, bad, bad boy, from getting among those horrid, betting men. They haunted me through the long, peaceful day with Leta, and the tea-to-teat dinner, but they swarmed around and beset me sorraced when, sitting alone over my sitting-room fire, I listened for the return of the drag-party. I read my newspaper and brewed myself some hot, strong drink, but there comes a time of night when no fire can warm and no drink can cheer. The bishop's despairing face kept me company, and his troubles and the wrongs of the future air took possession of me. Then the uncanny noises that make all old houses ghostly during the small hours began to make themselves heard. The muffled footsteps tried the corridor, stopping to listen at every door. Door latches gently clicked, boards creaked unreasonably. Sounds of stealthy movements came from the locked-up bathroom. The welcome crash of wheels at last and the sound of the front doorbell. I could hear Lady Cartwichet making her shrill adieu to her friends and her steps in the corridor. She was softly humming a little song as she approached. I heard her unlock her bedroom door before she entered, an odd thing to do. Tom came sleepily stumbling to his room later. I put my head out. Where is Lord Cartwichet? Haven't you seen him? He left us hours ago. Not come home, eh? Well, he's welcome to stay away. I don't wanna see more of him. Tom's brow was dark and his voice surly. I gave him to understand as much. Whatever had happened, Tom was evidently too disgusted to explain just then. I went back to my fire unaccountably relieved and brood myself another and a stronger brew. It warmed me this time, but excited me foolishly. There must be some way out of the difficulty. I felt now as if I could almost see it if I gave my mind to it. Why, suppose, there might be no difficulty at all. The bishop was a nervous old gentleman. He might have been mistaken all through. Bogerts might have been mistaken. I might. No. I could not have been mistaken, or I thought not. I fidgeted and fumed and argued with myself till I found I should have no peace of mind without a look at the stone in my possession. And I actually went to the safe and took the case out. The sapphire certainly looked different by lamp light. I sat and stared and all but over persuaded my better judgments into giving it a verdict. Bogerts' mark, I suddenly remembered it. I took my magnifier and held dependent to the light. There, scratched upon the stone, was the Greek beta. There came a tap on my dorm before I could answer. The handle turned softly and Lord Cartwichet stood before me. I whipped the case into my dressing-gown pocket and stared at him. He was not pleasant to look at, especially at that time of night. He had a disheveled desperdere. His voice was hoarse. His red-rimmed eyes wild. I beg your pardon, he began civilly enough. I saw your light burning and thought, as we go by the early train to-morrow, you might allow me to consult you now on a little business of my mother's. His eyes roved about the room. Was he trying to find the whereabouts of my safe? You know a lot about precious stones, don't you? So my friends are kind enough to say. Won't you sit down? I have unluckily little chance of indulging the taste of my own accounts, was my cautious reply. But you've written a book about them and know them when you see them, don't you? Now my mother has given me something and would like you to give a guess at its value. Perhaps you can put me in the way of disposing of it. I certainly can do so if it is worth anything. Is that it? I was in a fever of excitement where I guessed what was clutched in his palm. He held out to me the valda and sapphire. How it shone and sparkled like a great blue star. I made myself a deprecating smile as I took it from him. But how dare I call it false to its face? As well accused the sun in heaven of being a cheap imitation. I faltered and prevaricated feebly. Where was my moral courage and where was the good honest thumping lie that should have aided me? I have the best authority for recognizing this as the very good copy of a famous stone in the possession of the Bishop of North Church. His scowl grew so black that I saw he believed me and I went on more cheerily. This was manufactured by Johannes Booker's. I can give you his address and you can make inquiries yourself. By special permission of the then owner, the late Leon Montanero handed back. He interrupted. His other remarks were outrageous, but satisfactory to hear. But I waved him off. I couldn't give it up. It fascinated me. I toyed with it. I caressed it. I made it display its different tones of color. I must see the two stones together. I must see it outshine its paltry rival. It was a whimsical frenzy that seized me. I can call it by no other name. Would you like to see the original? Curiously enough, I have it here. The Bishop has left it in my charge. The wolfish light flamed up in Cartwich's eyes as I drew forth the case. He laid the valdez down on a sheet of paper and I placed the other, still in its case, beside it. In that moment they looked identical except for the little loop of sham stones replaced by a plain gold band in the Bishop's jewel. Cartwich it leaned across the table eagerly. The table gave a lurch. The lamp tottered, crashed over, and we were left in semi-darkness. Don't stir, Cartwich it shouted. The paraffin is all over the place. He seized my sofa blanket and flung it over the table while I stood helpless. There, that's safe now. Have you candles in the chimney piece? I've got matches. He looked very white and excited as he lit up. Might have been an awkward job with all that burning paraffin running about, he said quite pleasantly. I hope no real harm is done. I was lifting the rug with shaking hands. The two stones lay as I had placed them. No, I nearly dropped it back again. It was the stone in the case that had the loop with the three sham sapphires. Cartwich it picked the other up hastily. So you say this is rubbish? He asked, his eyes sparkling wickedly and an attempt at mortification in his tone. Utter rubbish, I pronounced with truth and decision, snapping up the case and pocketing it. Lady Cartwich it must have known it. Ah, well, it's disappointing, isn't it? Goodbye, we shall not meet again. I shook hands with him most cordially. Goodbye, Lord Cartwich it. So glad to have met you and your mother. It has been a source of the greatest pleasure, I assure you. I have never seen the cartwich it sends. The bishop drove over next day in rather better spirits. Miss Panton had refused the chaplain. It doesn't matter, my lord, I said to him heartily. We've all been under some strange misconception. The stone in your possession is a veritable one. I could swear to that anywhere. The sapphire Lady Cartwich it wears is only an excellent imitation and I have seen it with my own eyes, is the one bearing Bogert's mark, the Greek beta. End of section 18, recording by Katie Riley, July, 2010. Section 19 of Library of the World's Best Mystery and Detective Story is volume three. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, in order to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Library of the World's Best Mystery and Detective Stories, volume three, by Julian Hawthorne, editor. Section 19, Without the Wedding Garment by Anonymous. On one of Lady George Atoll's first Thursdays, her rooms were filling to overflow. Barn Street was blocked with carriages. Lady George stood on the big square landing at the top of the stairs and gave her hand so often that after a time it seemed no longer her own. The people thronged up and up. The current appeared unending and she felt almost as if the circle must be complete and the string of guests must be revolving as in a child's toy, the figures that are gummed onto a tape go up to the mill, move in endless succession, up and up and up. Her tongue was tired too and so was her smile but each was kept in active work. How do you do? How do you do? How do you do? Your sudden up with you? No, I'm sorry. What lovely flowers. How do you do? How do you do? No, almost cold. How do you do? Yes, stifling. Ah, Mrs. Keith, I scarcely thought you would get away. Del, was it? What, none of the right people? Didn't suppose for an instant there would be. Let me stand here for one moment. I want so much to know who someone is who came in just before us, a beautiful woman, quite too lovely. Mrs. Venables, probably, not Mrs. Venables, fair. Lady Fleet, no. Miss Adair, no. Then I can't tell you till I see her. She's coming up now, there with the fair hair. No, in front of the Brabazons. Lady George had the miss chance to drop her bouquet and in the momentary confusion a name was lost. The lady who advanced behind the unheard name was fair to whiteness almost. Her hair was of a peculiar shade of yellow like pale sulphur. Her eyes were of the lightest gray. Lady George gave her hand and said, How do you do? The Brabazons occupied her with some elaborate explanation about why they had been unable to dine in Barn Street, and in the meantime the lady with a murmured word had passed on. Lady George looked after her. She was spowing to someone. She was bowing again. And now again. Apparently she had many friends in the room. Mr. Brabazon was talking to Mrs. Keith, who as soon as he had moved away turned to her hostess. She is handsome. I hope your flowers were not spoiled. I didn't catch the name. The lady was lost in the smart crowd. Neither did I, said Lady George blankly, and I don't know her from Adam. She must be some friend of the girls. Joan or Maude must have sent her a card. My memory's so bad. I can't leave this. If you come across either of my daughters, will you send her to me, Mrs. Keith? Oh, here is my husband. George! George! Go into the room and tell me who the striking-looking woman with the yellow hair is. There are dozens of them. Which? I'll show you, said Mrs. Keith. She was interested. The two moved away, but like the dove from the ark they did not return. Lady George after ten minutes or so felt that she had done her duty, and she left the top of the stairs. She forgot the unknown lady, and it was half an hour before she came across one of her daughters. Maude, I had something to ask you, and I forget what. Oh, yes, who is—I can't see her now. Yes, there she is, that woman with the yellow hair standing by the mantelpiece. In white? I don't know. But neither do I. I thought you would be able to tell me. Find Joan and send her to me. It was twenty minutes before Lady George's second daughter appeared before her. By that time the lady had moved her place. I know the one you mean, said Joan, but I don't know who she is. She has very curious hair, and she is in white. Yes. Well, I don't know. Mrs. Keith came up. Lord George doesn't know, she said. I can easily find out, said Joan. She has been talking to Charlie Vincent for the last ten minutes. I'll ask him. She moved away as she spoke. Young Vincent was leaning against a pillar and laughing heartily. He was the butt for the moment of a chaff of two of his friends. Joan heard a few of their remarks. He didn't mind, don't you know, awfully pretty woman like that, neither would you. Said she met him at Nice, and dear old Charlie's never been out of the country in his life. Vincent caught Miss Atoll's eye. You are going to let me take you down to supper? He said to her. I will see you later on, said Joan. Just now I want you to tell me something. What is the name of the lady you were talking to a few minutes ago? He began to laugh. At what, said Joan? Well, the whole thing. Those two chaps have been chaffing me like anything as it is. You mean the handsome woman with the fair hair? Yes. I was standing near her when she turned round and put out her hand. She said, Mr. Vincent, isn't it? And I said yes. And then she said she hadn't seen me for ever so long, and I didn't like to pretend that I did not know her. So I said that it was rather a long time, and then we talked for a bit. And you don't know who she is? Never saw her before in my life. Who is she? Where did she think she had met you, said Joan, without answering his question? Well, you see, that didn't come out till quite the end. She said it must be two years since the days at Nice, and by that time I was so steeped in deception I had allowed my reminiscences of our former acquaintance to go to such lengths in order to coincide with hers that I had not the face to tell her that I had never been at Nice in my life. She mistook me for someone else. I knew that after the first half-dozen words. But you see, I had woven such a tangled web that I couldn't get out of it even if I wanted to, and those two chaps say I didn't. Joan laughed. She's very handsome, she said, but I'm not quite sure that she is good style. And you won't come down to supper? Not now. I would ask her if I knew her name, said Vincent. I must get Lady George to tell me when I see her. You won't do that, said Joan, and she left him with a smile that he failed to interpret. Miss Atoll went back to her mother. On the way she passed the fair unknown talking to Mr. Brabazon. I watched that, Mrs. Keith was saying. She dropped her fan. Well, Joan, what had Mr. Vincent to tell you? Nothing, said Miss Atoll. The mystery remains a mystery. She mistook him for someone else. She bowed to Lady Beckenham, I think. Here is Lady Beckenham. I will ask her. Not to me, said Lady Beckenham. Lady George explained the situation. If I were in your case, I should go to her myself, said Lady Beckenham. I must, I think, said Lady George, and she sought her unknown guest. You will pardon me, she said, but I did not hear your name, and my memory is bad. I do not recall your face. I am Mrs. Darbyshire, so the Lady, I was so sorry not to return your call on Monday. It was good of you to come and see me so soon. Darbyshire? Call? Lady George looked at her vacantly. The Lady caught something of her hostess's expression. Can there be any mistake, she said? I don't know you, of course, because I did not see you when you called. You heard from my dear friends the Van Linden's of New York, and you came to see me and asked me to your party? Lady George looked more vacant. You are Mrs. Sefton, surely? said the Lady. There are some mistakes, said Lady George. I am Lady George Atoll. Mrs. Darbyshire had started to her feet. How can I sufficiently apologize, she said? I am a stranger in London. I only arrived from New York last week. I had an introduction to Mrs. Sefton. I do not know her personally, so I did not discover my mistake. I came in a handsome, and I suppose the driver mistook my direction. Lady George smiled graciously. The mistake is easily explained if Mrs. Sefton lives in Barn Square. That is it, I think, said Mrs. Darbyshire, and this is Barn Street. I am so distressed this should have happened, said Mrs. Darbyshire. Not at all, said Lady George. You found some friends here, I hope, and it has given us the pleasure of your company. The Lady with reiterated apologies bowed and took her departure. A man who passed her on the stairs looked at her fixedly and hurried up to his hostess. Will you tell me that Lady's name, he said? Five minutes ago I might have asked you, Colonel Weston. She is a Mrs. Darbyshire, I believe. Her cab men mistook Barn Street for Barn Square. You know nothing about her? Nothing. Then excuse me. Colonel Weston hurried down to the hall. Mrs. Darbyshire was coming from the cloakroom. Madam Moselle, the stock will permit me to see her to her hotel. The Lady started, then smiled and bowed. Monsieur est bien aimable, she said. He followed her to the handsome and got in. He spoke up through the trap. Drive slowly to the end of the street, and I will direct you. He turned then to his companion. We meet again, Madame Moselle. Oui, Monsieur. Madame Moselle has perhaps few friends in London. Not many, Monsieur. Madame Moselle, however, starts well under such a wing as that of Lady George Atoll. Without doubt, Monsieur. A more softly feathered wing than that of the law, Madame Moselle, you should know. Monsieur is facetious. I should like to see what you have in your pocket, Madame Moselle. My handkerchief, Monsieur. What else? A meager purse. What else? That is all. That figure clad in dark blue is a policeman. What else, Madame Moselle? Only this, said Mrs. Darbyshire, she handed him a small diamond brooch as she spoke. Only that? That is all, Monsieur. I have had no luck. You are sure that is all, a word to my friend in blue. Save yourself the trouble, Monsieur. That is all. Good night, Madame Moselle. Good night for the old sakes' sake. Good night, said Mrs. Darbyshire. Colonel Weston called another cab and drove back to Barn Street. A chance likeness, perhaps, to someone I met in Paris, he said to Lady George. One is easily mistaken. I have just picked this up, he added, putting the brooch into her hand. Do you know who's it is? Someone is sure to claim it, said Lady George. A few days later, a chance that Lady George Atoll and Mrs. Sefton met. I suppose you heard from your friend Mrs. Darbyshire of her coming to my crush in mistake of yours? It was Darbyshire, so Mrs. Sefton, but she came to me the night before last for you. Her cabman mistook. Lady George opened her eyes. When did that happen? On Wednesday I have good reason to remember the day, for I lost an emerald bracelet. End of Section 19