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 as 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 subjected to intense and continuing 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 got it from, and he probably knew what it had endured. He
was aware that, from a mercantile point of view, it was worthless; it
could never have been cut. So, having a turn for humor of a peculiar kind,
he had devoted days, and weeks, and possibly months, to the construction
of that puzzle. He had placed the diamond inside, and he had enjoyed, in
anticipation and in imagination, the Alnaschar visions of the lucky
finder.
Pugh blamed me for the catastrophe. He said, and still says, that if I had
not, in a measure, and quite gratuitously, insisted on a 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 ten thousand pounds.
But I satisfy my conscience with the reflection that what I did at any
rate was honest, though, at the same time, I am perfectly well aware that
such a reflection gives Pugh no sort of satisfaction.
_The Great Valdez Sapphire_
I know more about it than anyone else in the world, its present owner not
excepted. I can give its whole history, from the Cingalese 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 pawned 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for obvious reasons, will not be published--which, in fact, I trust the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 Northchurch 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 bidden thereto.
The first spoonful of soup was reassuring, and I looked to the end of the
table to exchange a congratulatory glance with Leta. What was amiss? No
response. Her pretty face was flushed, her smile constrained, she was
talking with quite unnecessary _empressement_ to her neighbor, Sir Harry
Landor, though Leta 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 _relevés_, and reserving mere 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 Landors, our
new neighbors. Not a mere cumbrous county 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 Leta's fault. She has got into 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 to-day she had indulged
in a feminine vagary that 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 _repoussé_ and orchids, the ruby
would look absolutely barbaric. Now if you would have had the Limoges set,
white candles, and a yellow silk center--"
"Oh, but--I'm _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.
Studs, sleeve-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 tone of gold; and the
dinner hour struck as I replaced my jewel case, the one relic left me of a
once 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 gauds,
which ought to be disposed of for the benefit of the heathen. I gave the
subject up, and while she discoursed of the work of the Blue Ribbon Army
among the Bosjesmans 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 nodding over a dinner plate, and beneath
them a pink nose in a green visage with a nutcracker chin altogether
unknown to me. A sharp gray eye shot a sideway glance down the table and
caught me peeping, and I retreated, having only marked in addition two
clawlike 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 Leta's fan flutter more
furiously and her manner grow 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 why either should be required.
The ices at last. A _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 mediæval type,
broad-chested, deep-voiced, martial 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 editions, tall copies and Grolier bindings, nor 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. By-by--!" She shook her fan at him over
my shoulder and tripped off. Leta, passing me last, gave me a look of
profound despair.
"Lady Carwitchet!" 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 some one else behind me confidentially.
"What Carwitchet? Not the mother of the Carwitchet who--"
"Just so. The Carwitchet 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 uncommonly good company--in fact, Carwitchet laid me under a great
obligation about a horse I was nearly let 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 Carwitchet can join her." A groan of sympathy ran round the
table. "It can't be helped. I've 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--_sotto voce_, out of
deference to Tom--but perfectly audible.
"Carwitchet? 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. Ought to be serving her fourteen
years--and that business of poor Farrars, 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
a ghastly white, his fierce imperious eyebrows drooping limp over his
fishlike eyes, his splendid figure shrunk and contracted. He was trying
with a shaken hand to pour out wine. The decanter clattered against the
glass and the wine 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.