 CHAPTER I. THE FIRST DIMOND There were thirty or forty personally addressed letters, the daily heritage of the head of a great business establishment, and a plain yellow-wrapped package about the size of a cigarette box, some three inches long, two inches wide, and one inch deep. It was neatly tied with thin scarlet twine, and innocent of markings except for the superscription in a precise copper-plate hand, and the smudge of the postmark across the ten-cent stamp in the upper right-hand corner. The imprint of the cancellation, faintly decipherable, showed that the package had been mailed at the Madison Square substation at half past seven o'clock of the previous evening. Mr. Harry Latham, president and active head of the H. Latham Company, manufacturing jewelers in Fifth Avenue, found the letters and the package on his desk when he entered his private office a few minutes past nine o'clock. The simple fact that the package bore no return address or identifying mark of any sort caused him to pick it up and examine it, after which he shook it inquiringly. Then, with kindling curiosity, he snipped the scarlet thread with a pair of silver scissors, and unfolded the wrappings. Inside was a glazed paper box, such as jewelers use, but still there was no mark, no printing, either on top or bottom. The cover of the box came off in Mr. Latham's hand, disclosing a bed of white cotton. He removed the downy upper layer, and there, there nestled against the snowy background, blazed a single, splendid diamond of six perhaps seven carats. Myriad colors played in its blue-white depths, sparkling, flashing, dazzling in the subdued light. Mr. Latham drew one long, quick breath, and walked over to the window to examine the stone in the full glare of day. A minute or more past, a minute of wonder, admiration, allurement, but at last he ventured to lift the diamond from the box. It was perfect, so far as he could see, perfect in cutting and color and depth, prismatic, radiant, bewilderingly gorgeous. Its value, even he could not offer an opinion, only the appraisement of his expert would be worth listening to on that point. But one thing he knew instantly, in the million-dollar stock of precious stones stored away in the vaults of H. Latham Company, there was not one to compare with this. At length as he stared at it, fascinated, he remembered that he didn't know its owner, and for the second time he examined the wrappings, the box inside and out, and finally he lifted out the lower layer of cotton, seeking a fugitive card or mark of some sort. Surely the owner of so valuable a stone would not be so careless as to send it this way, through the mail, unregistered, without some method of identification. Another sharp scrutiny of the box and cotton and wrappings left him in deep perplexity. Then another idea came, one of the letters, of course. The owner of the diamond had sent it this way, perhaps to be set, and had sent instructions under another cover. An absurd even a reckless thing to do, but—and Mr. Latham attacked the heap of letters neatly stacked up in front of him. There were thirty-six of them, but not one even remotely hinted at diamonds. In order to be perfectly sure, Mr. Latham went through his mail a second time. Perhaps the letter of instructions had come addressed to the company and had gone to the secretary, Mr. Flitcroft. He arose to summon Mr. Flitcroft from an adjoining room, then changed his mind long enough, carefully to replace the diamond in the box, and thrust the box into a pigeon-hole of his desk. Then he called Mr. Flitcroft in. Have you gone through your morning mail, Mr. Latham inquired of the secretary? Yes, he replied, I have just finished. Did you happen to come across a letter bearing on—that is, was there a letter today, or has there been a letter of instructions, as to a single large diamond which was to come or had come by mail? No, nothing, replied Mr. Flitcroft promptly. The only letter received today which referred to diamonds was a notification of a shipment from South Africa. Mr. Latham thoughtfully drummed on his desk. Well, I'm expecting some such letter, he explained. When it comes please call it to my attention. Send my stenographer in. Mr. Flitcroft nodded and withdrew, and for an hour or more Mr. Latham was engrossed in the routine of correspondence. There was only an occasional glance at the box in the pigeon-hole, and momentary fits of abstraction, to indicate an unabated interest and growing curiosity in the diamond. The last letter was finished and the stenographer rose to leave. Please ask Mr. Zankie to come here, Mr. Latham directed. And after a while Mr. Zankie appeared. He was a spare little man with beady black eyes, bushy brows, and a sinister scar extending from the point of his chin across the right jaw. Mr. Zankie drew a salary of twenty-five thousand dollars a year from the H. Latham Company, and was worth twice that much. He was the diamond expert of the firm, and for five or six years his had been the final word as to quality and value. He had been a laborer in the South African diamond mines. The scar was an asengue thrust about the time Cecil Rhodes' grip was first felt there. Later he was employed as an expert by Barney Barnardo at Kimberley, and finally he went to London with Adolf Ziet. Mr. Latham nodded as he entered and took the box from the pigeon-hole. Here's something I'd like you to look at, he remarked. Mr. Zankie removed the cover and turned the glittering stone out into his hand. For a minute or more he stood still examining it, as he turned and twisted it in his fingers, then walked over to a window, adjusted a magnifying glass in his left eye, and continued the scrutiny. Mr. Latham swung around in his chair and stared at him intently. It's the most perfect blue-white I've ever seen, the expert announced at last. I dare say it's the most perfect in the world. Mr. Latham arose suddenly and strode over to Mr. Zankie, who was twisting the jewel in his fingers, singling out, dissecting, cutting in the colorful flashes, measuring the facets with practiced eyes, weighing it on his fingertips, seeking a possible flaw. The cutting is very fine, the expert went on. Of course I would have to use instruments to tell me if it is mathematically correct, and the weight, I imagine, is about six carats, perhaps a fraction more. What's it worth? asked Mr. Latham, approximately, I mean. We know the color is perfect, explained Mr. Zankie precisely. If, in addition, the cutting is perfect, and the depth is right, and the weight is six carats or a fraction more, it's worth, in other words, if that is the most perfect specimen in existence as it seems to be, it's worth whatever you might choose to demand for it. Twenty, twenty-five, thirty thousand dollars? With this color, and assuming it to be six carats, even if badly cut, it would be worth ten or twelve thousand? Mr. Latham mopped his brow, and this had come by mail, unregistered. It would not be possible to say where such a stone came from, what country? Mr. Latham inquired curiously. What's your opinion? The expert shook his head. If I had to guess I should say, Brazil, of course, he replied, but that would be merely because the most perfect blue-white diamonds come from Brazil. They are found all over the world, in Africa, Russia, India, China, even in the United States. The simple fact that this color is perfect makes a conjecture useless. Mr. Latham lapsed into silence, and for a time paced back and forth across his office Mr. Zenke stood waiting. Please get the exact weight, Mr. Latham requested abruptly. Also test the cutting. It came into my possession in rather an unusual manner, and I'm curious. The expert went out, and an hour later he returned and placed the white-glazed box on the desk before Mr. Latham. The weight is six and three-sixteenths carats, he stated. The depth is absolutely perfect according to the diameter of the girdle. The bezel facets are mathematically correct to the minutest fraction, thirty-three, including the table. The facets on the collet side are equally exact, twenty-five including the collet, or fifty-eight facets in all. As I said, the color is flawless. In other words, he continued without hesitation. I should say, speaking as an expert, that it is the most perfect diamond existing in the world, today. Mr. Latham had been staring at him mutely, and he still sat silent for an instant after Mr. Zenke had finished. And its value, he asked at last. Its value, Mr. Zenke repeated musingly. You know Mr. Latham, he went on suddenly. There are a hundred experts commissioned by royalty scouring the diamond markets of the world for such stones as this. So if you are looking for a sale and a price, by all means offer it abroad first. He lifted the sparkling iridescent jewel from the box again, and gazed at it reflectively. There is not one stone belonging to the British crown, for instance, which would in any way compare with this. Not even the Coenor, Mr. Latham demanded, surprised. Mr. Zenke shook his head. Not even the Coenor. It is larger, that's all, a fraction more than one hundred and six carats, but it has neither the colouring nor the cutting of this. There was a pause. Would it be impertinent if I asked who owns this? I don't know, replied Mr. Latham slowly. I don't know, but it isn't ours. Perhaps later I'll be able to. I beg your pardon, the expert interrupted courteously, and there was a slight expression of surprise on his thin, scarred face. Is that all? Mr. Latham nodded absently, and Mr. Zenke left the room. End of Chapter 1 Chapter 2 of The Diamond Master by Jacques Futrell. This Libervox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 2. Tweetle them and Tweetle thee. A little while later, when Mr. Latham started out to luncheon, he thrust the white-glazed box into an inside pocket. It had occurred to him that Schultz, Gustave Schultz, the greatest importer of precious stones in America, was usually at the club where he had luncheon. He found Mr. Schultz a huge blond German, sitting at a table in an alcove alone, gazing out upon Fifth Avenue in deep abstraction, with perplexed wrinkles about his blue eyes. The German glanced around at Latham quickly as he proceeded to draw out a chair on the opposite side of the table. "'Sit down, Latham, sit down,' he invited explosively. I have just sent for the waiter to telephone to ask you.' There was a restrained note of excitement in the German's voice, but at the moment it was utterly lost upon Mr. Latham. Schultz, you've probably imported more diamonds in the last ten years than any other half-dozen men in the United States, he interrupted. I have something here I want you to see. Perhaps at some time it may have passed through your hands.' He placed the glazed box on the table. For an instant the Germans stared at it with amazed eyes, then one fat hand darted toward it, and he spilled the diamond out on the napkin in his plate. Then he sat gazing as if fascinated by the lambent darting flashes deep from the blue-white heart. "'Mine got, Latham,' he exclaimed. And, with fingers which shook, he lifted the little stone and squinted through it toward the light with critical eyes. Mr. Latham was leaning forward on the table, waiting, watching, and listening. Well,' he queried impatiently at last. "'Latham, it is a miracle,' Mr. Schultz explained solemnly, with his characteristic whimsical philosophy. I have the duplicate of it, Latham. It's twin, it's little brother. See here?' From an inner pocket he produced a glazed white box, identical with that which Mr. Latham had just set down, then carefully laid the cover aside. Look, Latham! Look!' Mr. Latham looked and gasped. Here was the counterpart of the mysterious diamond which still lay in Mr. Schultz's outstretched palm. They are twins, Latham, remarked the German quaintly, finally. It came by mail this morning, just like this, wrapped in paper. But with no marks, no name, no nothing. It just came. With his right hand Mr. Latham lifted the duplicate diamond from its cotton bed, and with his left took the other from the German's hand. Then, side by side, he examined them. Color, diameter, depth, all seem to be the same. Twins, I tell you, repeated Mr. Schultz stolidly, tweedledum and tweedledee, born of the same mother and father. Latham, it is a miracle. They are the most beautiful in the world, just the pair of them. Have you made, Mr. Latham began, and there was an odd, uncertain note in his voice. Have you made an expert examination? I have. I measured them, deepness, cutting, facets, and its perfect. And I take my own judgment of a diamond, Latham, before any man in the world. But zenky. And the weight? Precisely six and three sixteenths carat. There is not more of a difference than thirty seconds between them. Mr. Latham regarded the importer steadily, the while he fought back an absurd, nervous thrill in his voice. There isn't that much, Schultz. Their weight is exactly the same. For a long time the two men sat staring at each other unseeingly. Finally the German, with a prodigious teutonic sigh, replaced the diamond from Mr. Latham's right hand in one of the glazed boxes, and carefully stowed it away in a cavernous pocket, Mr. Latham mechanically disposed of the other in the same manner. Who's are they, he demanded at length? Why are they sent to us like this? With no name, no letter of explanation. Until I saw the stone you have, I believed this other had been sent to me by some careless fool for setting perhaps, and that a letter would follow it. I merely brought it here on the chance, that it was one of your importations and that you could identify it. But since you have received one under circumstances which seem to be identical, now, he paused helplessly. What does it mean? Mr. Schultz shrugged his huge shoulders and thoughtfully flicked the ashes from his cigar into the consomme. You know, Latham, he said slowly, they don't pick up diamonds like those on the street quarters. I don't believe there was a stone of such bigness in the United States whose owner I didn't know it was. Those that are here I have brought here myself mostly. Those I did not, I kept track of. I don't know, Latham. I don't know. The longer I live, the more I don't know. The two men completed a scant luncheon in silence. Obviously, remarked Mr. Latham, as he laid his napkin aside, the diamonds were sent to us by the same person. Obviously, they were sent to us with a purpose. Obviously, we will in time hear from the person who sent them. Obviously, they were intended to be perfectly matched. So, let's see if they are. Come to my office and let Zenki examine the one you have. He hesitated an instant. Suppose you let me take it. We'll try a little experiment. He carefully placed the jewel which the German handed to him in an outside pocket, and together they went to his office. Mr. Zenki appeared in answer to a summons, and Mr. Latham gave him the German's box. That's the diamond you examined for me this morning, isn't it, he inquired. Mr. Zenki turned it out into his hand, and scrutinized it perfunctorily. Yes, he replied after a moment. Are you quite certain, Mr. Latham insisted. Something in the tone caused Mr. Zenki to raise his beady black eyes questioningly for an instant, after which he walked over to a window and digested his magnifying glass again. For a moment or more he stood there. Then, it's the same stone, he announced positively. It's a miracle, Latham, when Zenki makes a mistake. The German exploded suddenly. Show him the other one. Mr. Zenki glanced from one to the other with a quick inquisitive glance. Then, without a word, Mr. Latham produced the second box and opened it. The experts stared incredulously at the two perfect stones, and finally, placing them side by side on a sheet of paper, returned to the window and sat down. Mr. Latham and Mr. Schultz stood beside him, looking on curiously, as he turned and twisted the jewels under his powerful glass. As a matter of fact, asked Mr. Latham pointedly at last, you would not venture to say which of these stones it was you examined this morning, would you? No, replied Mr. Zenki curtly, not without weighing them. And if the weight is identical? No, said Mr. Zenki again. If the weight is the same, there is not the minutest fraction of a difference between them. CHAPTER III Mr. Latham ran through his afternoon mail with feverish haste and found—nothing. Mr. Schultz achieved the same result more ponderously. On the following morning the mail still brought nothing. About eleven o'clock Mr. Latham's desk telephone rang. Come to my office, requested Mr. Schultz in guttural excitement. Mine got, Latham. Come to my office and bring the diamond. Mr. Latham went. Including himself, there were the heads of the five greatest jewelry establishments in America, representing, perhaps, one-tenth of the diamond trade of the country in Mr. Schultz's office. He found the other four gathered around a small table, and on this table, Mr. Latham gasped as he looked, lay four replicas of the mysterious diamond in his pocket. Put it down here, Latham, directed Mr. Schultz. They are all twins, all alike, tweedle-dums and tweedle-dees. Mr. Latham silently placed the fifth diamond on the table, and for a minute or more the five men stood still and gazed, first at the diamonds, then at one another, and then again at the diamonds. Mr. Solomon, the crisply spoken head of Solomon Berger and Company, broke the silence. These all came yesterday morning by mail, one to each of us, just as the one came to you, he informed Mr. Latham. Mr. Harris here, of Harris and Blacklock, learned that I had received such a stone, and brought the one he had received for comparison. We made some inquiries together and found that a duplicate had been received by Mr. Stoddard of Hall Stoddard Higginson. The three of us came here to see if Mr. Schultz could give us any information, and he telephoned for you. Mr. Latham listened blankly. It's positively beyond belief, he burst out. What—what does it mean? It means, the German importer answered philosophically, that if diamonds like these keep popping up like this, in another three months they will not be worth more than five cents a bucketful. The truth of the observation came to the four others simultaneously. Hitherto there had been only the sense of wonder and admiration. Now came the definite knowledge that diamonds, even of such great size and beauty as these, would grow cheap if they were to be picked out of the void, and realization of this astonishing possibility brought five shrewd business brains to a unit of investigation. First it was necessary to find how many other jewelers had received duplicates, then it was necessary to find whence they came. A plan was adopted and an investigation ordered to begin at once. There is something back of it, of course, declared Mr. Schultz. What is it? They are not being sent for our health. During the next six days half a score of private detectives were at work on the mystery, with the slender clues at hand. They scanned hotel registers, quizzed paper-box manufacturers, pastored stamp clerks, bedeviled postal officials, and the sum total of their knowledge was negative, save in the fact that they established beyond question that only these five men had received the diamonds. And meanwhile the heads of the five greatest jewel houses in New York were assiduous in their search for that copper-plate superscription in their daily mail. On the morning of the eighth day it came. Mr. Latham was nervously shuffling unopened personal correspondence when he came upon it, a formal white square envelope directed by that same copper-plate hand which had directed the boxes. He dropped into his chair and opened the envelope with eager fingers. Inside was this letter. My dear sir, one week ago I took the liberty of sending you, and to each of the four other leading jewelers of this city whose names you know, a single large diamond of rare cutting in color. Please accept this as a gift from me, and be good enough to convey my compliments to the other four gentlemen, and assure them that theirs too were gifts. Believe me I had no intention of making a mystery of this. It was necessary, definitely, to attract your attention, and I could conceive of no more certain way than in this manner. In return for the value of the jewels I shall ask that you, and the four others concerned, give me an audience in your office on Thursday afternoon next, at three o'clock, that you make known this request to the others, and that the three experts whose judgment you will all accept shall meet with us. I believe you will appreciate the necessity of secrecy in this matter, for the present at least. Respectfully, Yvonne Cortland, win. They were on hand promptly all of them, Mr. Latham, Mr. Schultz, Mr. Solomon, Mr. Stoddard, and Mr. Harris. The experts agreed upon were the unemotional Mr. Zenke, Mr. Cawthorn, an Englishman in the employ of Solomon, Berger and Company, and Mr. Schultz, who gravely admitted that he was the first expert in the land, after Mr. Zenke, and whose opinion of himself was unanimously accepted by the others. The meeting place was the director's room of the H. Latham Company. At one minute of three o'clock a clerk entered with a card and handed it to Mr. Latham. Mr. E. Van Cortland, win. Mr. Latham read aloud, and every man in the room moved a little in his chair. Then show him in here, please. Now, gentlemen, observed Mr. Schultz sententiously, we shall see what we shall see. The clerk went out and a moment later Mr. Win appeared. He was tall and rather slender, alert of eyes, graceful of person, perfectly self-possessed, and sure of himself, yet without one trace of egotism in his manner or appearance, a fair type of the brisk, courteous young businessman in New York. He wore a tweed suit and in his left hand carried a small sole leather grip. For an instant he stood, framed by the doorway, meeting the sharp scrutiny of the assembled jewelers with a frank smile, for a little time no one spoke merely gazed, and finally Mr. Latham queried Mr. Win looking from one to the other. Latham came to his feet with a sudden realization of his responsibilities as temporary host, and introductions followed. Mr. Win passed along on one side of the table shaking hands with each man in turn until he came to Mr. Zenke. Mr. Latham introduced them. Mr. Zenke repeated Mr. Win, and he allowed his eyes to rest frankly upon the expert for a moment. Your name has been repeated to me so often that I almost feel as if I knew you. Mr. Zenke bowed without speaking. I am assuming that this is the Mr. Zenke who was associated with Mr. Bernardo and Mr. Z, the young man went on. That is correct, yes, replied the expert. And I believe too that you once did some special work for Professor Henry Moisson in Paris. Mr. Zenke's black eyes seemed to be searching the other's face for an instant, and then he nodded affirmatively. I made some tests for him. Yes, he volunteered. Mr. Win passed along the other side of the long table and stopped at the end. Mr. Latham was at his right, Mr. Schultz at his left, and Mr. Zenke sat at the far end facing him. The small sole leather grip was on the floor at Mr. Win's feet. For a moment he permitted himself to enjoy the varying expressions of interest on the faces around the table. Gentlemen, he began. Then. You all probably have seen my letter to Mr. Latham, or at least you are aware of its contents, so you understand that the diamonds which were mailed to you are your property. I am not an elamoisonary institution for the relief of diamond merchants, and he smiled a little. For the gifts are preliminary to a plain business proposition, a method of concentrating your attention, and, in themselves, part payment, if I may say it, for any worry or inconvenience which followed upon their appearance. There are only five of them in the world, they are precisely alike, and they are yours. I beg of you to accept them with my compliments. Mr. Schultz tilted his chair back a little, the better to study the young man's countenance. I am going to make some remarkable statements the young man continued, but each of these statements is capable of demonstration here and now. Don't hesitate to interrupt if there is a question in your mind, because everything I shall say is vital to each of you as bearing on the utter destruction of the world's traffic and diamonds. It is coming, gentlemen, it is coming, just as inevitably as the night follows the day, unless you stop it. You can stop it by concerted action in a manner which I shall explain later. He paused and glanced along the table. Only the face of Mr. Zenki was impassive. Since the opening of the fields in South Africa, Mr. Wynne resumed quietly, something like five hundred million dollars worth of diamonds have been found there, and we'll say arbitrarily that all the other diamond fields of the world, including Brazil and Australia, have produced another five hundred million dollars worth. In other words, since about 1868 a billion dollars worth of diamonds have been placed on the market. Gentlemen, that represents millions and millions of carats, forty, fifty, sixty million carats in the rough say. Please bear those figures in mind a moment. Now, suddenly, and as yet secretly, the diamond output of the world has been increased fiftyfold, that is, gentlemen, within the year I can place another billion dollars worth of diamonds at the prices that hold now, in the open market, and within still another year I can place still another billion in the market, and on, and on, indefinitely. To put it differently, I have found the unlimited supply. My gut! Where is it, demanded the German breathlessly. Heedless of the question, Mr. Wynne leaned forward on the table and gazed with half-closed eyes into the faces before him. In credulity was the prominent expression, and coupled with that was amazement. Mr. Harris, with quite another emotion displaying itself on his face, pushed back his chair as if to rise, a slight wrinkle in the brow was all the evidence of interest displayed by Mr. Zanke. I am not crazy, gentlemen, Mr. Wynne went on after a moment, and the perfectly normal voice seemed to reassure Mr. Harris, for he sat still. The diamonds are now in existence, untold millions of dollars worth of them, but there is the tedious work of cutting. They're in existence, packed away as you pack potatoes. I thrust my two hands into the bag and bring them out full of stones as perfect as the ones I sent you. He straightened up again, and the deep earnestness of his face relaxed a little. I believe you said, Mr. Wynne, that you could prove any assertion you might make—here and now—suggested Mr. Latham coldly. It occurs to me that such extraordinary statements as those demand immediate proof. Mr. Wynne turned and smiled at him. You are quite right, he agreed, and then, to all of them, it's hardly necessary to dwell upon the value of colored diamonds, the rarest and the most precious of all, the perfect rose color, the perfect blue, and the perfect green. He drew a small glazed white box from his pocket and opened it. Please be good enough to look at this, Mr. Zenke. He spun a rosely glittering object some three-quarters of an inch in diameter along the table toward Mr. Zenke. It flamed and flashed as it rolled, with that deep iridescent glaze which left no doubt of what it was. Every man at the table arose and crowded about Mr. Zenke, who held a flame-like sphere in his outstretched palm for their inspection. There was a tense, breathless instant. "'It's a diamond,' remarked Mr. Zenke, as if he himself had doubted it, a deep rose color cut as a perfect sphere. It's worth half a million dollars if it's worth a cent,' exclaimed Mr. Solomon almost fiercely. "'And this, please,' Mr. Wynn, from the other end of the table, spun another glittering sphere toward them, this as brilliantly softly green as the verter of early spring, prismatic, gleaming, radiant. Mr. Zenke's beady eyes snapped as he caught it and held it out for the others to see, and some strange emotion within caused him to close his teeth savagely. "'And this,' said Mr. Wynn again, and a third sphere rolled along the table. This was blue, elusively blue as a moonlit sky. Its rounded sides caught the light from the windows and sparked it back. And now the three jewels lay side by side in Mr. Zenke's open the while the five greatest diamond merchants of the United States glutted their eyes upon them. Mr. Latham's face went deadly white from sheer excitement, the Germans violently read from the same emotion, and the others there was amazement, admiration, awe in them. Mr. Zenke's countenance was again impassive. 4 The Unlimited Supply If you will all be seated again, please, requested Mr. Wynn, who still stood cool and self-certain at the end of the table, the sound of his voice brought a returning calm to the others, and they resumed their seats. All saved Mr. Cawthorne, who walked over to a window with the three spheres in his hand, and stood there examining them under his glass. "'You gentlemen know, of course, the natural shape of the diamond in the rough,' Mr. Wynn resumed, questioningly. Here are a dozen specimens which may interest you. The octahedron, the rhombic dodecahedron, the triacosactahedron, and the hexacosactahedron. He spread them along the table with the sweeping gesture of his hand, colorless, inert pebbles ranging in size from a pea to a peanut. And now you ask, where do they come from?" The others nodded unanimously. "'I'll have to state a fact that you all know, as part answer to the question,' replied Mr. Wynn. "'A perfect diamond is a perfect diamond, no matter where it comes from—Africa, Brazil, India, or New Jersey. There is not the slightest variation in value if the stone is perfect. That being true, it is a matter of no concern to you as dealers where these come from. And it is that they are here, and, being here, they bring you, to the necessity of concerted action, to uphold the diamond as a thing of value." "'You said the world's output had been increased fiftyfold,' suggested Mr. Schultz. "'Do we understand you prove it by these?' The young man smiled slightly and drew a leather packet from ninner pocket. He stripped it of several rubber bands and then turned to Mr. Zanky again. "'Mr. Zanky, I have been told that a few years ago you had an opportunity of examining the co-enor. Is that correct?' "'Yes.' "'I believe the co-enor was temporarily removed from its setting, and that you were one of three experts to whom was entrusted the task of selecting four stones of the identical coloring to be set alongside it?' "'That is correct,' Mr. Zanky agreed. "'You held the co-enor in your hand and you would be able to identify it?' "'I would be able to identify it,' said Mr. Cawthorn positively. He had turned at the window quickly. It was the first time he had spoken. Mr. Wynne walked around the table to Mr. Zanky and approached Mr. Cawthorn. "'Suppose then you gentlemen examined this together,' suggested Mr. Wynne. He lifted a great glittering jewel from the leather packet and held it aloft that all might see. Then he carefully placed it on the table in front of the experts, and the others came to their feet and stood gazing as if fascinated. "'By Jove!' exclaimed Mr. Cawthorn. For a minute or more the two experts studied the huge diamond, one hundred and six carats and a fraction beneath their glasses, and finally Mr. Cawthorn picked it up and led the way toward the window. Mr. Zanky and the German followed him. "'Gentlemen,' and Mr. Cawthorn now turned sharply to face the others, this is the co-enor. Mr. Zanky didn't mention it, but I was one of the three experts who had the opportunity to examine the co-enor. This is the co-enor.' Startled questioning eyes were turned upon Mr. Wynne. He was smiling. There was a question in his face as he regarded Mr. Zanky. "'It is either the co-enor or an exact duplicate,' said Mr. Zanky. It is the co-enor,' repeated Mr. Cawthorn doggedly. "'It seems to me,' interposed Mr. Schultz, that if the co-enor was missing, somebody would have heard of it. I have not heard. Mr. Zanky made a mistake the other day. Maybe you did it today.' "'You have made a mistake, I assure you, Mr. Cawthorn,' remarked Mr. Wynne quietly. You identify that as the co-enor, of course, by a slight inaccuracy in one of the facets adjoining the collet. That inaccuracy is known to every diamond expert. The mistake you make is a complement to that as a replica.' He resumed his position at the end of the table, and Mr. Schultz sat beside him. Amazement was a thing of the past as far as he was concerned. Mr. Zanky dropped into his chair again. "'And now, Mr. Zanky, speaking as an expert, what would you say was the most perfect diamond in the world?' asked Mr. Wynne. "'The five blue-white stones you mailed to these gentlemen,' replied the expert, without hesitation. "'Perhaps I should have specified the most perfect diamond known to the world at large,' Mr. Wynne added smilingly. The Regent. Again Mr. Cawthorne looked round with bewilderment in his eyes. The others nodded their approval of Mr. Zanky's opinion. "'The Regent, yes,' Mr. Wynne agreed. One hundred and thirty-six and three-quarter carats, cut as a brilliant, worn by Napoleon in his sword-hilt, now in the Louvre at Paris, the property of the French government, valued at two and a half million dollars. His hand disappeared into the leather packet again, poised on his fingertips. When he withdrew them, there was another huge jewel, he dropped it into Mr. Schultz's hand. There is further proof that the diamond output has increased fiftyfold. Mr. Schultz seemed dazed as he turned and twisted the diamond in his hand. After a moment he passed it on down the table without a word. A duplicate also, and Mr. Wynne glanced at Mr. Cawthorne, it is reasonably certain that you would have heard of that if it had disappeared from the Louvre. He turned to Mr. Schultz again. "'I may add that this fiftyfold increase in output is not confined to small stones,' he went on tauntingly. "'They are of all sizes and values. For instance, he lifted still another jewel from the packet and held it aloft for an instant.' "'The ORLOF!' gasped Mr. Solomon. "'No,' the young man corrected. "'This too is a duplicate. The original is in the Russian scepter. This is a replica, color, weight, and cutting being identical, one hundred and ninety-three carats, nearly as large as a pigeon's egg.' Then Mr. Wynne glanced along the table. Suddenly the Frank amazement had vanished from the faces of these men, and he found only the tense interest of an audience watching a clever juggler. For a time Mr. Schultz studied the ORLOF duplicate, then passed it along to the others. "'The grand cullinan diamond weighs only two or three pounds,' he questioned in a tone of deep resignation. "'Maybe you have it in your package already?' "'Not yet,' replied Mr. Wynne. "'But I may possibly get that on my next trip out. Who knows?' There was a long, tense silence. Mechanically Mr. Zanky placed the three spheres and the replicas in an orderly little row upon the table in front of him and the uncut stones beside them. "'Is there one lingering doubt in any mind here as to the tremendous find which makes the production of all these possible?' "'It is a miracle, Mr. Wynne,' admitted the German gravely after a little pause. "'There is something before us, as there never was in the world. I am convinced.' "'Up to this moment, gentlemen, the De Beers syndicate had controlled the diamond market,' Mr. Wynne announced. "'But now, from this moment, I control it. I hold it there, in the palm of my hand, with the unlimited supply back of me. I am offering you an opportunity to prevent the annihilation of the market. It rests with you. If I turn loose a billion dollars worth of diamonds within the year you are ruined, all of you. You know that it's hardly necessary to tell you, and, gentlemen, I don't care to do it.' "'What is your proposition?' queried Mr. Latham quietly. His face was ghastly white. Haggard lines, lined by amazement and realization, were marked clearly on it. "'What is your proposition?' he repeated. "'Wait a minute,' interposed Mr. Solomon protestingly, and he turned to the young man. The syndicate controls the market by force of the reserve stock of ten or fifteen million dollars. Do we understand that you have more than these ready for market now?' Mr. Wynne stooped and lifted a small sole leather grip which had been unheated on the floor. He unfastened the catch and turned the bag upside down upon the table. When he raised it again the assembled jewelers gazed upon the spectacle unknown and undreamed of in the history of the world. A great, glittering heap of diamonds, flashing, colorful, prismatic, radiant, bedazzling. They rattled like pebbles upon the mahogany table as they slipped and slid one against another, and then at rest resolved themselves into a steady, multicolored blaze which was almost blinding. "'Now, gentlemen, on the table before you there are about thirty million dollars' worth of diamonds,' Mr. Wynne announced calmly. "'They are all perfect, every one of them, and they're mine. "'I know where they come from. You can't find out. It's none of your business. Are you satisfied now?' Mr. Latham looked, looked until his eyes seemed bursting from his head, and then, with an inarticulate little cry, fell forward on the table with his face on his arms. The German importer came to his feet with one vast, teutonic oath, then sat down again. Mr. Solomon plunged his hand into the blazing heap and laughed senselessly. The others were silent, stunned, overcome. Mr. Wynne walked around the table and replaced the spheres and replicas in his pocket, after which he resumed his former position. "'I have stated my case, gentlemen,' he continued quietly, very quietly. "'Now, for my proposition.' Briefly, it is this. For a consideration I will destroy the unlimited supply. I will bind myself to secrecy, as you must. I will guarantee that no stone from the same source is ever offered in the market privately, while you, gentlemen, and his manner was emphatically deliberate, purchase from me at one half the carat price you now pay, one hundred million dollars worth of diamonds.' He paused. There was not a sound. No one moved. "'You may put them on the market as you may agree, slowly, thus preventing any material fluctuation in value,' he went on. "'How to hold this tremendous reserve secretly and still permit the operation of the other diamond mines of the world is the great problem you will have to face.' He leaned over, picked up a handful from the heap, and replaced them in the leather bag. The others he swept off into it then snapped the lock. "'I will give you one week to decide what you will do,' he said in conclusion. "'If you accept the proposition, then six weeks from next Thursday at three o'clock, I shall expect a cash payment of ten million dollars for a portion of the stones now cut and ready. Within a year all the diamonds will have been delivered and the transaction must be closed.' He hesitated an instant. "'I'm sorry, gentlemen, if the terms seem hard, but I think after consideration, you will agree that I have done you a favour by coming to you instead of going into the market and destroying it. I will call next Thursday at three for your answer. That is all. Good day!' The door opened and closed behind him. A minute, two minutes, three minutes passed and no one spoke. At last the German came to his feet slowly, with a sigh. "'Anyhow, gentlemen,' he remarked, "'that young man has a hell of a load of diamonds. Ain't it?' End of Chapter 4. Chapter 5 The Astute Mr. Burns It was a few minutes past four o'clock when Mr. Wins strode through the immense retail sales department of the H. Latham Company and a uniformed page held open the front door for him to pass out. Once on the sidewalk the self-styled diamond master of the world paused long enough to pull on his gloves, carelessly chucking the small sole leather grip with its twenty-odd million dollars worth of precious stones under one arm. Then he turned up Fifth Avenue toward 34th Street. A sneak-thief brushed past him, appraised him with one furtive glance, then went his way, seeking quarry more promising. Simultaneously with Mr. Wins' appearance, three men whose watchful eyes had been fastened on the doorway of the H. Latham Company for something more than an hour stirred. One of them, Frank Claflin, was directly across the street, strolling along idly, the most purposeless of all in the hurrying well-dressed throng. Another Steve Burns, chief of the Burns Detective Agency, appeared from the hallway of a building adjoining the H. Latham Company and moved along behind Mr. Wins, some thirty feet in the rear. The third, Jerry Malone, was half a block away up Fifth Avenue, coming slowly toward them. Mr. Burns adjusted his pace to that of Mr. Wins, step for step, and then, seeming assured of his safety, from any chance glance, ostentatiously mopped his face with a handkerchief, putting it a little to the left as he replaced it in his pocket. Claflin, across the street, understood from that that he was to go on up Fifth Avenue to Thirty-Fourth Street, the next intersection, and turn west to board any cross-town car which Mr. Wins might possibly take. And a cabbie, who had been sitting motionless on his box down the street, understood from it that he was to move slowly along behind Mr. Burns and be prepared for an emergency. Halfway between Thirty-Third and Thirty-Fourth Streets, Jerry Malone approached and passed Mr. Wins without so much as a glance at him, and went on toward his chief. Drop in behind here, Mr. Burns remarked crisply to Malone, without looking around. I'll walk on ahead and turn east in Thirty-Fourth Street to nail him if he swings a car. Claflin's got him going west. Mr. Wins was perhaps some twenty feet from the corner of Thirty-Fourth Street and Fifth Avenue when Mr. Burns passed him. His glance lingered on the broad back of the chief reflectively as he swung by and turned into the cross-street after a quick, business-like glance at an approaching car. Then Mr. Wins smiled. He paused on the edge of the curb long enough for an automobile to pass, then went on across Thirty-Fourth Street to the uptown side and, turning flatly, looked Mr. Burns over pensively, after which he leaned up against an electric pole and scribbled something on an envelope. A closed cab came wriggling and squirming up Fifth Avenue as it reached the middle of Thirty-Fourth Street Mr. Wins raised his hand and the cab drew up beside him. He said something to the driver, opened the door and stepped in. Mr. Burns smiled confidently. So that was it, eh? He too crossed Thirty-Fourth Street and lifted his hand. The cab which had been drifting along behind him immediately came up. Now, Jimmy, get on the job, instructed Mr. Burns as he stepped in. Keep that chap in sight and when he stops, you stop. Mr. Wins' cab jogged along comfortably up the avenue, twisting and winding a path between the other vehicles. The while Mr. Burns regarded it with a thoughtful gaze. Its number dangling on a white board in the rear, Mr. Burns just happened to note it. Grand Central Station all bet a hat, he mused. But the closed cab didn't turn into Forty-Second Street. It went past, then on past Del Monaco's, past the Cathedral, past the plaza at Fifty-Nineth Street and still on uptown. It was not hurrying. It merely moved along steadily, but once free of the snarl which culminates at the Fifty-Nineth Street entrance to Central Park, its speed increased a little. Past Sixty-Fourth Street, Sixty-Fifth, Sixty-Sixth, and Sixty-Seventh, it slowed up and halted at the sidewalk, on the far side. Stop in front of a door, Jimmy, directed the detective hastily. Jimmy obeyed gracefully and Mr. Burns stepped out, hardly half a block behind the closed cab. He went through any elaborate pretense of paying Jimmy, the while he regarded Mr. Wynn who had also alighted and was paying the driver. The small sole leather grip was on the ground between his feet as he ransacked his pocket. A sediment was reached, the cabinotted, touched his horse with his whip, and continued to jog up Fifth Avenue. Now he didn't order that chap to come back or wouldn't have paid him, the detective reasoned, therefore he's close to where he is going. But Mr. Wynn seemed in no hurry. Instead he stood for a minute gazing after the retreating vehicle, which fact made it necessary for Mr. Burns to start a dispute with Jimmy as to show how much the fair should be. They played the scene admirably. Had Mr. Wynn been listening, he might even have heard part of the vigorous argument. After he listened to the argument or not, he turned and gazed straight at Mr. Burns until finally the detective recognized the necessity of getting out of sight. With a final explosion he handed a bill to Jimmy and turned to go up the steps of the house. He had no business there, but he must do something. Jimmy turned the cab short and went rattling away down Fifth Avenue to await orders in the lee of a corner a block or so away. Meanwhile, as Mr. Wynn still stood on the corner, Mr. Burns had to go on up the steps. But as he placed his foot on the third step he knew, though he had not looked, apparently, yet he knew that Mr. Wynn had raised his hand and that in that hand was a small white envelope. And further he knew that Mr. Wynn was gazing directly at him. Now that was odd. Jimmy began to dawn upon the detective that Mr. Wynn was trying to attract his attention. If he heeded the signal, evidently it was intended as such, it would be a confession that he was following Mr. Wynn and realizing this he took two more steps up. Mr. Wynn waved the envelope again, after which he folded it across twice and thrusted into a crevice of a water-plug beside him. Then he turned east along sixty- seventh street and disappeared. The detective had seen the performance, all of it, and he was perplexed. It was wholly unprecedented. However, the first thing to do now was to keep Mr. Wynn in sight. So he came down the steps and walked rapidly on to sixty-seventh street, pausing to peer around the corner before he turned. Mr. Wynn was idling along half a block away without the slightest apparent interest in what was happening behind. Inevitably Mr. Wynn's eyes were drawn to the water-plug across the street. A tag end of white paper gleamed tantalizingly. Now what the deuce did it mean? Being only human, Mr. Wynn's went across the street and got the paper. It was an envelope. As he unfolded it and gazed at the address written in pencil, his mouth opened in undignified astonishment. It was addressed to him, Steve Burns, chief of the Burns Detective Agency. Mr. Wynn had still not looked back, so the detective trailed along behind, opening the envelope as he walked. A note inside ran briefly. My address is Number Blank, East Thirty-Seventh Street. If it is necessary for you to see me, please call there, about six o'clock this afternoon, Eve and Cortland Wynn. Now here was, perhaps, as savory a kettle of fish as Mr. Burns had ever stumbled upon. It is difficult to imagine a more embarrassing situation for a professional sleuth than to find himself suddenly taken into the confidence of the person he was shadowing. But was he being taken into Mr. Wynn's confidence? Ah, that was the question. Admitting that Mr. Wynn knew who he was, and admitting that he knew he was being followed, was not this apparent frankness an attempt to throw him off the scent? He would see, would Mr. Burns. He quickened his pace a little then slowed up instantly, because Mr. Wynn had stopped on the corner of Madison Avenue, and as a downtown car came rushing along he stepped on to board it. Mr. Burns scuttled across the street, and by a dexterous jump swung on the car as it fled past. Mr. Wynn had gone forward and was taking a seat. Mr. Burns remained on the back platform, sheltered by the accommodating bulk of a fat man, and flattered himself that Mr. Wynn had not seen him. By peering over the huge shoulder the detective was still able to watch Mr. Wynn. He saw him pay his fare, and then he saw him place the small sole leather grip on his knees and unfasten the catch. Not knowing what was in that grip, Mr. Burns was curious to see what came out of it. Nothing came out of it. It was empty. There was no question of this, for Mr. Wynn opened it wide and turned it upside down to shake it out. It didn't mean anything in particular to Mr. Burns, the fact that the grip was empty, so he didn't get excited about it. Mr. Wynn left the car at 34th Street, the south end of the Park Avenue tunnel, by the front door, and the detective stepped off the rear end. Mr. Wynn brushed past him as he went up the stairs, and as he did so, he smiled a little, a very little. He walked up Park Avenue to 37th Street, turned in there, and entered a house about the middle of the block with a latch-key. The detective glanced at the number of the house and felt aggrieved. It was the number that was written in the note. And Mr. Wynn had entered with a key, which meant, in all probability, that he did live there, as he had said. But why did he take that useless cab ride up Fifth Avenue? If he had no objection to anyone knowing his address, why did he go so far out of his way? Mr. Burns couldn't say. As he pondered these questions, he saw a maid-servant come out of the house adjoining that which Mr. Wynn had entered, and he went up boldly to question her. Did Mr. Wynn live next door? Yes. How long had he lived there? Five or six months. Did he own the house? No, the people who owned the house had gone to Europe for a year and had rented it furnished. No, Mr. Wynn didn't have a family. He lived there alone except for two servants, a cook and a housemaid. She had never noticed anything unusual about Mr. Wynn or the servants or the house. Yes, he went out every day downtown to business. No, she didn't know what his business was, but she had an idea that he was a broker. That was all. From a nearby telephone booth the detective detailed Claflin and Malone, who had returned to the office to keep a sharp watch on the house, after which he walked on to Fifth Avenue and down Fifth Avenue to the establishment of H. Latham Company. Mr. Latham would see him, yes. In fact, Mr. Latham, harried by the events of the past two hours, bewildered by a hundred million-dollar diamond deal which had been thrust down his throat gracefully, but nonetheless certainly, written by the keenest curiosity, was delighted to see Mr. Burns. I've got his house address all right, Mr. Burns boasted in the beginning. Of course it was against the ethics of the profession to tell how he got it. Progress already commented Mr. Latham with keen interest. That's good. Then the detective detailed the information he had received from the maid, adding thereto diverse and sundry conclusions of his own. Mr. Latham marveled exceedingly. He tried to shake us all right when he went out, Mr. Burns went on to explain, but the trap was set and there was no escape. With certain minor omissions he told of the cab ride to 67th Street, the trip across to a downtown car, and as a matter of convincing circumstantial detail added the incident of the empty grip sack. Empty, repeated Mr. Latham startled, empty, did you say? Empty is a base drum, the detective assured him complacently. He turned it upside down and shook it out. Then what became of them, demanded Mr. Latham. What became of what? The diamonds, man, what became of the diamonds. You didn't mention any diamonds, to me, except those five the other day, the detective reminded him coldly. Your instructions were to find out all about this man, who he is, what he does, where he goes and the rest. This is my preliminary report. You didn't mention diamonds. I didn't know he would have them, Mr. Latham exploded irascibly. That empty grip sack, man, when he left here he carried millions, I mean a great quantity, of diamonds in it. A great quantity of—the detective began and then he sat up straight in his chair and stared at Mr. Latham in bewilderment. If the grip sack was empty when he was on the car, Mr. Latham rushed on excitedly, then don't you see he got rid of the diamonds somehow, from the time he left here until you saw the grip sack was empty. How did he get rid of them? Where does he keep them? And where does he get them? Mr. Burns closed his teeth grimly and his eyes snapped. Now he knew why Mr. Winn had taken that useless cab ride up Fifth Avenue. It was to enable him to get rid of the diamonds. There was an accomplice. In detective parlance the second person is always an accomplice, in that closed cab. It had all been prearranged. Mr. Winn had deliberately made a monkey of him, Stephen Burns. Reluctantly the detective permitted himself to remember that he didn't know whether there was anyone in that cab when Mr. Winn entered it. And, and, then he remembered that he did know one thing, the number of the cab. He arose abruptly with the light of great determination in his face. Whose diamonds were they? he demanded. They were his, as far as we know, replied Mr. Latham. How much were they worth? Mr. Latham looked him over thoughtfully. I am not at liberty to tell you that, Mr. Burns, he said at last. There are a great number of them, and they are worth, they are worth a large sum of money, and they are all unset. That's enough for you to know, I think. It seemed to be quite enough for Mr. Burns to know. It may be that I will have something further to report this evening, he told Mr. Latham. If not, I'll see you to-morrow, here. He went out. Ten minutes later he was talking to a friend at police headquarters over the telephone. The records there showed that the license for that particular cab he had followed had been issued to one William Johns. He was usually to be found around the cab stand in Madison Square, and lived in Charlton Street. CHAPTER VI Mr. Burns' busy heels fairly spurned the pavement of Fifth Avenue, as he started toward Madison Square. Here was a long line of cabs drawn up beside the curb, some twenty or thirty in all. The fifth from the end bore the number he sought. Mr. Burns chuckled, and there, alongside it, stood William Johns, swapping Billings' gate with the driver of a handsome. The while he kept one eye open for a prospective fare. It was too easy. Mr. Burns paused long enough to congratulate himself upon his marvellous acumen, and then he approached the driver. Are you William Johns? He accused him sharply. That's me, Cap, the cab he answered readily. A few minutes past four o'clock this afternoon you went up Fifth Avenue and stopped at the corner of 34th Street to pick up a fare, a young man. Yup. You drove him to the corner of 67th Street and Fifth Avenue, the detective went on, just to forestall possible denials. He got out there, paid you, and you went on up Fifth Avenue? Far be it from me to deceive you, Cap, responded the cabbie with irritating levity. I'd done that same. Who was that man, demanded Mr. Burns coldly? Search me. I never seen him before. The detective regarded the cabbie with accusing eyes. Then quite casually he flipped open his coat and Johns caught a glimpse of a silver shield. It might only have been an accident, of course. Still. Now, Johns, who was the man in the cab when you stopped to pick up the second man at 34th Street? Wrong, Cap, and the cabbie grinned. There wasn't any man. Don't attempt to deny. No man, Cap. It was a woman. A woman, repeated the detective. A woman? Sure thing, a woman, a regular woman. And, Cap, she was a pippin, a peach-arino, a beauty bright, he added gratuitously. Mr. Burns stared thoughtfully across the street for a little while. So there was a woman in it. Mr. Wynn had transferred the contents of the gripsack to her in a cab on a crowded thoroughfare, right under his nose. I was a little farther down in the line there, Johns went on to explain. About a quarter of four o'clock, I guess, she came along. She got in after telling me to drive slowly up Fifth Avenue, so I would pass the 34th Street five minutes or so after four o'clock. If a young man with a gripsack hailed me at the corner, I was to stop and let him get in. Then I was to go on up Fifth Avenue. If I wasn't stopped, I was to drive on to 35th Street, cut across to Madison Avenue, down to 33rd Street, and then back to Fifth Avenue, and pass 34th Street again, going up town. The guy with the gripsack caught us first crack out of the box, and then demanded the detective eagerly. I went on up Fifth Avenue according to sailing orders, and the guy inside stopped me at 67th Street. He got out and gave me a five-spot, tell me to go a few blocks, then turn, and bring the lady back to Sixth Avenue L at 58th Street. I'd done it. That's all. She went up the steps, and that's the last I've seen of her. Did she carry a small gripsack? Yup. It would hold about as much as a high hat. Explicit as the information was, it led nowhere, apparently. Mr. Burns redly understood this much, yet there was a chance, a bear chance, that he might trace the girl on the L, in which case, anyway, it was worth trying. What did she look like? How was she dressed, he asked. She had on one of them blue tailor-made things, with a lid to match, and a long feather in it, the cabbie answered obligingly. She was pretty as a, as a, she was a butte-cap, sort of skinny, and had all sorts of hair on her head, brownish-goldish sort of hair. She was about 22, 23 maybe, and, and cap, she was the goods. That's all. In the course of a day a thousand women, more or less, answered that description in a general sort of way, riding back and forth on the elevated trains. Mr. Burns sighed as he remembered this. Still, it might produce results. Then came another idea. Did you happen to look in the cab after the young woman left it, he inquired? No. Had any fares since? No. Mr. Burns opened the door of the closed cab and glanced in. Perhaps there might be a stray glove, a handkerchief, some more definite clue than this vague description. He scrutinized the inside of the vehicle carefully. There was nothing. Yes, by Jingo, here was something, a white streak under the edge of the cushion on the seat. Mr. Burns' hopeful fingers fished it out. It was a white envelope, sealed and, and addressed to him. If you are as clever as I imagine you are, you will find this. My address is Number Blank, E. 37th Street. I shall be pleased to see you if you will call. E. Van Cortland Wynne. It was most disconcerting, really. Chapter 7 A Snow White Pigeon dropped down out of an azure sky and settled on the topmost girder of the Great Singer Building. For a time it rested there, with folded pinions, in a den of clanging hammers, and a workman far out on a delicately balanced beam of steel, paused in his labors to regard the bird with friendly eyes. The pigeon returned his gaze unafraid. Well, old chap, if I had as little trouble getting up here and down again as you do, I wouldn't mind the job, the workman remarked cheerfully. The pigeon cooed in answer. The steel-worker extended a caressing hand whereupon the bird rose swiftly, surely with white wings widely stretched, circled once over the vast steel structure, then darted away to the north. The workman watched the snow-white speck until it was lost against the blue sky, then returned to his labors. Some ten minutes later Mr. E. Van Cortland Wynne, sitting at his desk in his 37th Street House, was aroused from his meditations by the gentle tinkle of a bell. He glanced up, arose, and went the three flights of stairs to the roof. Half a dozen birds rose and fluttered around him as he opened the trap. One door in their coat at the rear of the building was closed. Mr. Wynne opened this door, reached in, and detached a strip of tissue paper from the leg of a snow-white pigeon. He unfolded it eagerly. On it was written, Safe! I love you! D. End of Chapter 7 CHAPTER VIII. Some conjectures. Mr. Gustav Schultz dropped in to see Mr. Latham after luncheon, and listened with puckered brows to a recital of the substance of the detective's preliminary report made that afternoon before. Mr. Burns left here rather abruptly. Mr. Latham explained in conclusion, saying he would see me again either last night or today. He has not appeared yet, and it may be that when he comes he will be able to add materially to what we know now. The huge Germans sat for a time with vacant eyes. The great question, Latham, he observed at last gravely, is where does Wynne get them? I know that. I know it, said Mr. Latham impatiently. That is the very question we are trying to solve. And if we don't solve it, Latham, we'll have to do whatever he says, Mr. Schultz continued slowly, and we may have to do whatever he says anyhow. But one hundred million dollars into diamonds in one year, just the five of us, demanded the other, it's preposterous. It is preposterous, the German agreed readily, but there is no argument. He was silent for a little while. Where does he get them? Where does he get them, he repeated thoughtfully. Do you believe, Latham, it would be possible to smuggle in twenty, thirty, a hundred million dollars of diamonds? Certainly not, was the reply. Then if they were not smuggled in they are somehow on the records of the Custom House, aren't they? Mr. Latham snapped his fingers with the sudden realization of this possibility. Schultz, I believe that is our clue, he exclaimed keenly. Certainly they would have been listed by the Customs Department, and come to think of it, the tariff on them would have been enormous. So enormous that, that, and he lost the hopeful tone. So enormous that we must have heard of it when it became a matter of public record. Yah, Mr. Schultz agreed. Diamonds like those duplicates of the Coronor, the Orloff, and the Regent, could never have passed through a Custom House, Latham, without attracting attention. So, Mr. Latham acquiesced by a knot of his head. Mr. Schultz sat regarding him through half-closed eyelids. And if they are not on the Custom Records, he continued slowly, and they are not smuggled in, then, Latham, mind-got, man, don't you see? See what? Then they are produced in this country. For a minute or two Mr. Latham sat perfectly still, gazing into the other's eyes. First he was startled. Then this gave way to incredulity, and at last he shook his head. No, he said flatly. No. Latham, the Americans produce anything, the German went on patiently. In 1848 we didn't know California was full of gold. And so late, as 1894, we didn't know the Klondike was full of gold. The greatest diamond fields we know now are in Africa, but in 1866 we didn't know it. There is no reason we should not produce diamonds. But look here, Schultz, Mr. Latham expostulated. It's unheard of. What was the Mississippi River until it was discovered, the German argued complacently? You are a diamond dealer, Latham. But you don't know much about them, where they come from. Is Zenke here sent for him? He knows more about diamonds than any man that ever lived. Mr. Latham sent an office boy for Zenke, who a few minutes later appeared with an inquiry in his beady black eyes and a nod of recognition for Mr. Schultz. Sit down, Mr. Zenke, the German invited. Sit down and draw a long breath, and then tell Latham here something about diamonds. What is it, please? Mr. Zenke asked of Mr. Latham. Mr. Zenke, have you any very definite idea as to where those diamonds came from, asked Mr. Latham? No, was the unhesitating response. Is it possible that they might have been found in the—in the United States, Mr. Latham went on? Certainly they might have been found anywhere. As a matter of fact, were any diamonds ever found in the United States? Yes, frequently. One very large diamond was found in 1855 at Manchester, across the James River from Richmond, Virginia. It weighed twenty-four carats when cut, and is the largest, I believe, ever found in this country. Mr. Latham seemed surprised. Why, you astonish me, he remarked. Wait a minute, and he'll astonish you some more, Mr. Schultz put in confidently. Where else in the United States have diamonds been found, Zenke? In California, in North Carolina, and in Hall County, Georgia, by the expert readily, there is a good ground for the belief that the stone found at Richmond had been washed down from the mountains, farther in the interior, and if that is true, there is a substantial basis for the scientific hypothesis that diamond fields lie somewhere in the Appalachian range because the diamonds found in both North Carolina and Georgia were adjacent to those mountains. He paused a moment. This is all a matter of record. His employer was leaning forward in his chair, gripping the arms fiercely as he stared at him. Do you believe it possible, Mr. Zenke, he asked deliberately, that Mr. Wynne has found these diamond fields? The expert shrugged his slender shoulders. It is possible, of course, he replied, from time to time great sums of money have been spent in searching for them, so he waved his hand and was silent. Now you see, Latham, Mr. Schultz interpolated, we don't know anything much. We know the African fields, and the Australian fields, and the Brazilian fields, and the fields in India, but we don't know if new fields have been found. By the time you have lived so long as me you won't know any more as I do. There was silence for a long time. Mr. Zenke sat with impassive face and his hands at rest on the arms of the chair. At last he spoke. If you'll pardon me, Mr. Latham, may I suggest another possibility? That is, demanded Mr. Schultz quickly. Did you ever hear of the French scientist Charles Freidel, Mr. Zenke asked addressing Mr. Latham? Never, no. Well, this idea has occurred to me. Some years ago he discovered two or three small diamonds in a meteor. We may safely assume, from the fact that there were diamonds in one meteor, that there may be diamonds in other meteors, therefore the German importer anticipated his line of thought and arose with a guttural burst of teutonic expletives. Therefore the expert went on steadily. Is it not possible that Mr. Wynn has stumbled upon a huge deposit of diamonds in some meteoric substance some place in this country? A meteor may have fallen anywhere, of course, and it may have been only two months ago, or it may have been two thousand years ago. It may even be buried in his cellar. The huge German nodded his head vigorously with sparkling eyes. It seems extremely probable that if a diamond field has been discovered in the Appalachian Range, Mr. Zenke went on, it would have become public in spite of every effort to prevent it, whereas it is possible that a meteor containing diamonds might have been hidden away easily, and also the productions of diamonds from such a source in this country would not make it necessary for the diamonds to pass through the Custom House. Is it clear, sir? Why, it's absurd! Fantastic! Chimerical! Mr. Latham burst out irritably. It's ridiculous to consider such a thing. I beg your pardon, Mr. Zenke apologized. It is only a conjecture, of course. I may add that I don't believe that three stones of the size of the replicas which Mr. Wynn produced here could have been found anywhere in the world and brought in here, smuggled in or in the usual way, and the secret held against the thousands of men who daily watched the diamond fields and markets. It would not be difficult, however, if one man alone knew the source of the stones to keep it from the world at large. I beg your pardon, he added. He arose as if to go. Mr. Schultz brought a heavy hand down on the slim shoulder of the expert and turned to Mr. Latham. Latham, you are listening to the man who knows more than all of us put in a crowd, he declared. Mind-got! I do believe he's right. Mr. Latham was a cold, unimaginative man of business. He hadn't even believed in fairies when he was a boy. This was child talk. He permitted himself to express his opinion by a jerk of his head and was silent. Diamonds like those out of meteors? Bosh! CHAPTER IX. And more diamonds. There was a wrap on the door and a clerk thrust his head in. Mr. Burns to see you, sir, he announced. Show him in, directed Mr. Latham. Sit down, both of you, and let's see what he has to say. There was an odd expression of hope deferred on the detective's face when he entered. He glanced inquiringly at Mr. Schultz and Mr. Zenke, whereupon Mr. Latham introduced them. You may talk freely, he added. We are all interested alike. The detective crossed his legs and balanced his hat carefully on a knee, and, the while, he favored Mr. Zenke with a sharp scrutiny. There was that in the thin, scarred face and the beady black eyes, which inevitably drew the attention of a stranger, and a half a dozen times as he talked Mr. Burns glanced at the expert. He retold the story of the cab ride up Fifth Avenue and the car trip back downtown, omitting embarrassing details such as the finding of two nodes addressed to himself. Dwell to moment upon the empty grip sack which Mr. Wynn carried on the car, and then. When you told me, Mr. Latham, that the grip sack had contained diamonds when Mr. Wynn left here, I knew instantly how he got rid of them. He transferred them to some person in the cab, in accordance with a carefully prearranged plan. That person was a woman. A woman, Mr. Latham repeated, as if startled. There is always women in it, remarked Mr. Schultz philosophically. Go on. Mr. Burns was not at all backward about detailing the persistence and skill it had required on his part to establish this fact, and he went on at length to acquaint them with the search that had been made by a dozen of his men to find a trace of the woman from the time she climbed the elevated stairs at Fifty-Eight Street. He admitted that the quest for her had thus been fruitless, assuring them at the same time that it would go steadily on, for the present at least. And now, Mr. Latham, he went on, and it inadvertently he glanced at Mr. Zenki. I have been hampered, of course, by the fact that you have not taken me completely into your confidence in this matter. I mean, he added hastily, that beyond a mere hint of their value I know nothing whatever about the diamonds which Mr. Wynn had in the gripsack. I gathered, however, that they were worth a large sum of money, perhaps even a million dollars. Yeah, a million dollars at least, remarked Mr. Schultz grimly. Thank you, and the detective smiled shrewdly. Your instructions were to find where he got them. If there had been a theft of a million dollars worth of diamonds anywhere in the world, I would have known it. So I took steps to examine the Custom House records of this and other cities, to see if there had been any unusual shipment to Mr. Wynn, or to anyone else outside of the diamond-dealers, thinking this might give me a clue. And what was the result, demanded Mr. Latham quickly. My agents have covered all the Atlantic ports, and they did not come in through the Customs House, replied Mr. Burns. I have not heard from the Western agents as yet, but my opinion is, is that they were perhaps smuggled in. Smuggling, after all, is simple, with the thousands of miles of unguarded coasts of this country. I don't know this, of course. I advance it merely as a possibility. Mr. Latham turned to Mr. Schultz and Mr. Zanky with a triumph and smile. Diamonds in meteors? Tamerot. Of course the detective resumed. The whole investigation centers about this man Wynn. He has been under the eyes of my agent, as no other man ever was, and in spite of this, has been able to keep in correspondence with his accomplices. And, gentlemen, he has done it not through the mails, not over the telephone, not by telegraph, and yet he has done it. By wireless, perhaps, suggested Mr. Zanky. It was the first time he had spoken, and the detective took occasion then and there to stare at him, frankly. And not by wireless, he said at last. He sends and receives messages from the roof of his house at 37th Street by homing pigeons. Some more Fantastics! Hey, Mr. Latham! Mr. Schultz taunted. Some more chimericals? I demonstrate this much by the close watch I have kept of Mr. Wynn, the detective went on, there being no response to his questioning look at Mr. Schultz. One of my agents stationed on the roof of the house joining Mr. Wynn's, it was the maidservant next door, has, on at least one occasion, seen him remove a tissue paper strip from a carrier pigeon's leg, and read what was written on it, after which he kissed it, gentlemen, kissed it, then he destroyed it. What did it mean? It means that that particular message was from the girl to whom he transferred the diamonds in the cab, and that he is madly in love with her. Oh, these women! I tell you! commented Mr. Schultz. There was a little pause, then Mr. Burns continued impressively. This correspondence is of no consequence in itself, of course. But it gives us this. Carrier pigeons will only fly home, so if Mr. Wynn received a message by pigeon, it means that at some time within a week, say, he has shipped that pigeon, and perhaps others, from the house in 37th Street, to that person who sent him the message. If he sends messages to that person, it means that he has received a pigeon, or pigeons, from that person within a week. And how were these pigeons shipped? In all probability by express. So gentlemen, you see there ought to be a record in the express offices which would give us the hometown. Even the name and address of the person who now has the diamonds in his or her keeping, is that clear to all of you? It's perfectly clear, commented Mr. Latham, admiringly, while the German nodded his head in approval. And that is the clue we are working on at the moment, the detective added. Three of my men are now searching the records of all the express companies in the city. And there are a great many for the pigeon shipments. If, as seems probable, this clue develops, it may be that we can place our hands on the diamonds within a few days. I don't think I would just place my hands on them, Mr. Schultz advised. They are his diamonds, you know, and your hands might get in trouble. I mean figuratively, of course, the detective amended. He stopped and drummed on his stiff hat with his fingers. Again he glanced at the impassive face of Mr. Zenke with a keen, questioning eye, and for one bare instant it seemed as if he were trying to bring his memory to his aid. I've found out all about this man when, he supplemented after a moment. But nothing in his record seems to have any bearing on this case. He is an orphan, his mother was a van Cortland of old Dutch Stock, and his father was a merchant downtown. He left a few thousand to his son, and the son is now in business for himself, with an office in Lower Broad Street. He is an importer of brown sugar. Brown sugar, queried Mr. Zenke quickly, and the thin, scarred face reflected for a second some subtle emotion within him. Brown sugar, he repeated. Yes, draw the detective with an unpleasant stare. Brown sugar. He imports it from Cuba and Puerto Rico and Brazil by the shipload, I understand, and makes a good thing of it. A quick pallor overspread Mr. Zenke's countenance, and he arose with his fingers working nervously. His beady eyes were glittering, his lips were pressed together until they were bloodless. What's this, demanded Mr. Schultz curiously. My God, gentlemen, don't you see, the expert burst out violently, don't you see what this man has done? He has. He has. When he by a supreme effort he regained control of himself and resumed his seat. He has what, asked Mr. Latham. For half a minute Zenke stared at his employer, then his face grew impassive again. I beg your pardon, he said quietly. Mr. Wynn is a heavy importer of sugar from Brazil. Isn't it possible that those are Brazilian diamonds? That new workings have been discovered somewhere in the interior? But he has smuggled them in concealed in sugar bags right into New York, under the noses of the custom officials. I beg your pardon, he concluded. Late in the afternoon of the following day a drunken man, unshaven, unkept, unclean, and clothed in rags, lurched into a small pawn-shop in the lower Bowery, and planked down on the dirty counter a handful of inert, colorless pebbles ranging in size from a pea to a peanut. Say, Jew, is dem real diamonds, he demanded thickly. The man in charge glanced at them and nearly fainted. Ten minutes later Red Haney, Knight of the Road, was placed under arrest as a suspicious character. Uncut diamonds, valued roughly at fifty thousand dollars, were found in his possession. Where did you get them? demanded the amazed police. Found them. Where did you find them? None of your business. And that was all they were able to get out of him at the moment. CHAPTER X When the police of Mulberry Street find themselves face to face with some problem other than the trivial, everyday theft, burglary, or murder, as the case may be, they are want to rise up and run around in a circle. The case of Red Haney and the diamonds, blared to the world at large in the newspapers of Sunday morning, immediately precipitated a circular parade, while Haney, the objective center, snored along peacefully in a drunken stupor. The statement of the case in the public press was altogether negative. There had been no report of the theft of fifty thousand dollars worth of uncut diamonds in any city of the United States. In fact, diamonds as a commodity in crime had not figured in police records for several weeks. Not even an actress had mislead a priceless necklace. The newspapers were unanimously certain that stones of such value could not rightly belong to a man of Haney's type, therefore, to whom did they belong. Four men at least of the thousands who read the detailed account of the affair Sunday morning immediately made it a matter of personal interest to themselves. One of these was Mr. Latham, another was Mr. Schultz, and a third was Mr. Burns. The fourth was Mr. E. Van Cortland Wynne. In the seclusion of his home in 37th Street, Mr. Wynne read the story with puckered brows, then re-read it, after which he paced back and forth across his room in troubled thought for an hour or more. An oppressive sense of uneasiness was coming over him, and it was reflected in eyes grown somber. After a time with sudden determination, the young man dropped into a chair at his desk, and wrote in duplicate on a narrow strip of tough tissue paper just one line, Are you safe? Is all well? Answer quick. W. Then he mounted to the roof. As he flung open the trap a man on the top of the house next door darted behind a chimney. After Wynne saw him clearly it was Frank Claflin, but he seemed to consider the matter of no consequence, for he paid not the slightest attention. Instead he went straight to a cage behind the pigeon-coat wherein a dozen or more birds were imprisoned, removed one of them, attached a strip of tissue paper to its leg, and allowed it to rise from his outstretched hand. The pigeon darted away at an angle, up, up until it grew indistinct against the void, then swung widely in a semi-circle, hovered uncertainly for an instant, and flashed off to the west, straight as an arrow flies. Mr. Wynne watched it thoughtfully until it had disappeared. And Claflin's interest was so intense that he forgot the necessity of screening himself, the result being that when he turned again toward Mr. Wynne he found that young man gazing at him. Mr. Wynne even nodded in a friendly sort of way as he attached the second strip of tissue to the leg of another bird. This rose as the other had done, and sped away toward the west. It may be worth your while to know, Mr. Claflinne, Mr. Wynne remarked easily to the detective on the other house, that if you ever put your foot on this roof to intercept any message which may come to me I shall shoot you. Then he turned and went down the stairs again, closing and locking the trap in the roof behind him. He should get an answer to those questions in two hours, three hours at the most. If there was no answer within that time he would dispatch more birds, and then, if no answer came, then, then Mr. Wynne sat down and carefully perused the newspaper story again. At just about that moment the attention of one John Sutton, author of the watchful Mr. Burns Men, on duty in 37th Street, was attracted to a woman who had turned in from Park Avenue and was coming rapidly toward him on the opposite side of the street. She was young, with the elasticity of perfect health in her step, and closely veiled. She wore a blue tailor-made gown with a hat to match, and recalcitant strands of streaming hair gleamed a golden brown. By George exclaimed the detective, it's her, by which he meant that the mysterious young woman of the cab, whose description had been drilled into him by Mr. Burns, had at last reappeared. He lounged along the street, watching her with keen interest, fixing her every detail in his mind. She did not hesitate, she glanced neither right nor left, but went straight on to the house, occupied by Mr. Winn, and rang the bell. A moment later the door was opened, and she disappeared inside. The detective mopped his face with tremulous joy. Doris exclaimed Winn as the veiled girl entered the room where he sat. Doris, my dear girl, what are you doing here? He arose and went toward her. She tore off the heavy veil impatiently, and lifted her moist eyes to his. There was suffering in them, uneasiness, and more than that. Have you heard from him out there, she demanded? Not today. No, he responded. Why did you come here? Jeanne, I can't stand it, she burst out passionately. I'm worried to death. I can't hear a word, and I'm worried to death. Mr. Winn wondered if she, too, had seen the morning papers. He stared at her gravely for an instant, then turned, crumpled up the section of newspaper with its glaring headlines, and dropped it into a wastebasket. I'm sorry, he said gently. I telephoned twice yesterday. She rushed on quickly, pleadingly, and once last night and again this morning. There was no—no answer. Jeanne, I couldn't stand it. I had to come. It's only that he didn't happen to be within hearing of the telephone bell, he assured her. But her steadfast, accusing eyes read more than that in his face, and her hands trembled on his arm. I'm afraid, Jeanne, I'm afraid, she declared desperately. Suppose—suppose something has happened. It's absurd, and he attempted to laugh off her uneasiness. Why nothing could have happened? All those millions of dollars' worth of diamonds, Jeanne, she reminded him, and he is—I shouldn't have left him alone. Why my dear Doris, and Mr. Wynn gathered the slender trembling figure in his arms protectively, not one living soul except you and I knows that they are there. There's no incentive to robbery, my dear, a poor, shabby little cottage like that. There's not the slightest danger. There's always danger, Jeanne, she contradicted. It makes me shudder to think of it. He is so old and so feeble, simple as a child, and utterly helpless if anything should happen. Then, when I didn't hear from him after trying so many times over the telephone, I'm afraid, Jeanne, I'm afraid, she concluded desperately. The long pent-up tears came, and she buried her face on his shoulder. He stood silent, with narrowed, thoughtful eyes. This and the thing in the newspaper there, and evidently she had not seen that. It was not wise that she should see it just yet. That day I took the horrid things from you in the cab, I was awfully frightened, she continued sobbingly. I felt that everyone I passed knew I had them, and you can't imagine what a relief it was when I took them back out there and left them. And now, when I think that something may have happened to him, she paused, then raised her tear-dimmed eyes to his face. He is all I have in the world now, Jeanne, except you. Already the hateful things have cost the lives of my father and my brother, and now if he, or you, oh, my God, it would kill me. I hate them, hate them. She was shaken by a paroxysm of sobs. Dr. Wynne led her to a chair, and she dropped into it wearily with her face and her hands. Nothing can have happened, Doris, he repeated gently. I sent a message out there in duplicate only a few minutes ago. In a couple of hours now we should be getting an answer. Now don't begin to cry, he added helplessly. And if you don't get an answer, she insisted. I shall get an answer, he declared positively. There was a long pause. And when I get that answer, Doris, he resumed again becoming very grave. You will see how unwise, how dangerous even, it was for you to come here this way. I know it's hard, dear, he supplemented apologetically. But it was only for the week, you know, and now I don't see how you can go away from here again. Go away, she repeated, wonderingly. Why shouldn't I go away? I was very careful to veil myself when I came. No one saw me enter. I am sure. Why can't I go away again? Mr. Wynne paced the length of the room twice with a troubled brow. You don't understand, dear, he said quietly as he paused before her. From the moment I left Mr. Latham's office last Thursday I have been under constant surveillance. I'm followed wherever I go. To my office, to luncheon, to the theatre, everywhere. And day and night, day and night, there are two men watching this house, and two other men watching my office. They tamper with my correspondence, trace my telephone calls, question my servants, quiz my clerks. You don't understand, dear, he said again. But why should they do all this? She asked curiously. Why should they? I had expected it all, of course, he interrupted, and it doesn't disturb me in the least. I planned for months to anticipate every emergency. I know every detective who is watching me by name and by sight, and all my plans have gone perfectly. Until now. That is why it was necessary for me to keep away from out there, as it was for you to keep away from here. Why, we could not afford to take chances by an interchange of letters or my telephone calls. When I left you in the cab I knew you would get away safely because they did not know you were there, in the first place. And then it was the beginning of the chase, and I forced them to centre their attention on me. But now is different. Come here to the window a minute. He led her across the room unresistingly, on the opposite side of the street, staring at the house was a man. That man is a private detective, Mr. Winn informed her. His name is Sutton, and he is only one of thirty or forty whose soul business in life right now is to watch me, to keep track of and follow any person who comes here. He saw you enter and you couldn't escape him going out. There's another on the roof of the house next door. His name is Claflin. These men, or others from the same agency, are here all the time. There are two more at my office downtown. Still others are searching customs records, examining the books of express companies, probing into my private affairs. And they're all in the employ of the men with whom I am dealing. Do you understand now? I didn't dream of such a thing, the girl faltered slowly. I knew, of course, that, jean, I shouldn't have come, if only I could have heard from him. My dear girl, it's a big game we are playing, a hundred million dollar game, and we shall win it, unless we shall win it in spite of them. Naturally, the diamond dealers don't want to be compelled to put up one hundred million dollars. They reason that if the stones I showed them come from new fields and the supply is unlimited, as I told them, that the diamond market is on the verge of collapse anyway, and as they look at it they are compelled to know where they came from. As a matter of fact, if they did know, or if the public got one inkling of the truth, the diamond market would be wrecked and all the diamond dealers in the world working together couldn't prevent it. If they succeed in doing this thing they feel they must do, they will only bring disaster upon themselves. It would do no good to tell them so. I merely laid my plans and am letting them alone. So you see, my dear, it is a game, a big game.