They were familiar; stone for stone they were the jewels he had stolen
from Mrs. Haley--stolen from her, stripped from their mountings, and
which at that moment he could have sworn were safe in a box at one of
the city's largest banks. There was no mistaking them--the ruby, the
big diamond with the odd workmanship.
"What are they, Jim?"
Hanvey grinned genially.
"Paste."
"Paste?"
"Sure. Can't you tell?"
"Where did you get them?"
"Had 'em made from the descriptions the insurance company has. I think
they look grand--for paste."
Sherwood stared at the glittering gems as though hypnotized. And while
he gazed Hanvey's huge hand went out and swept them back into the
chamois sack. "Awful good imitations, I think, Arthur."