"I suppose I ought to account for you in some way," she went on, "or
their curiosity will run riot. What would you suggest?"
"Oh, let them suppose that I am a playwright whose work you are
interested in."
She accepted the idea. How delightful it was for me to share secrets
with her!
My particular purpose in making this call was to urge her again to take
the jeweller into her confidence. I pointed out to her that we could
hope to do nothing unless we blocked the thief from disposing of the
pearls. Very reluctantly she finally consented, stipulating, however,
that the jeweller must be told that she had just discovered her loss.
I explained to her that we must look back to make sure that the jewels
had not already been offered for sale, but on this point she stood
firm. She gave me a note of introduction to Mr. Alfred Mount.
I delivered it the following morning. At this time Mount's was the
very last word in fashion. It was a smallish store but most richly
fitted up, on one of the best corners of the avenue, up near the
cathedral. Every one of the salesmen had the air of a younger son of
the aristocracy. They dealt only in precious stones, none of your
common stuff like gold or silver.
I was shown into a private office at the back, a gem of a private
office, exquisite and simple. And in Mr. Alfred Mount I saw that I had
a notable man. One guessed that he would have been a big man in any
line. So far I knew him only as one of the city's leading jewellers.
By degrees I learned that his interests were widespread.
He was a man of about fifty who looked younger, owing to his flashing
dark eyes, and his lips, full and crimson as a youth's. In a general
way he had a foreign look, though you couldn't exactly place him as a
Frenchman, an Italian or a Spaniard. It was only, I suppose, that he
wore his black hair and curly beard a little more luxuriantly than a
good American. His manner was of the whole world.
My involuntary first impression was dead against the man. He was too
much in character with the strange little orchid that decorated his
buttonhole. Later I decided that this was only my Anglo-Saxon
narrowness. True, he kept a guard on his bright eyes, and his red lips
were firmly closed--but do we not all have to train our features? He
was a jeweller who earned his bread by kow-towing to the rich. My own
face was not an open book, yet I considered myself a fairly honest
creature.
He read my letter of introduction which stated that I would explain my
business to him. Upon his asking what that was I told him quietly that
Miss Hamerton had been robbed of her pearls.
He started in his chair, and pierced me through and through with those
brilliant black eyes.
"Give me the facts!" he snapped.