# The Seen and the Unseen/The Diamonds

VIII.
THE DIAMONDS
I.—THE ONE DIAMOND
HAROLD BROOKE had a watchmaker's glass fitted in his eye. Through it he was intently regarding something which he held in his hand.
"One of the two finest diamonds which ever came out of Africa gone wrong! I wonder what Fungst will say?"
He moved to the window. Under the stronger light he renewed his examination of the crystal through the little microscopic lens.
"It'll be an affair of perhaps half an hour. I've known it happen in less. Tyrrel shall have it." He laughed. "Hard on Tyrrel, but harder still on me. He and I will share the loss. I wonder what Fungst will say? According to him, we had captured two of the finest diamonds Africa had ever yet produced. They were to make our fortunes. Well, Tyrrel shall have a chance of making his. I wonder how far his knowledge of this sort of thing may go?"
A few minutes afterwards a hansom dashed up in front of a quaint little shop in the neighbourhood of St John's Square, Clerkenwell. Mr. Brooke ​sprang out and entered the shop. A young man was its only occupant
"Tyrrel, I've brought you the diamond." The young man behind the counter gave a perceptible start. "I've changed my mind. You shall have it cheap."
"Cheap?"
"Dirt cheap. You shall have it for a thousand pounds."
"A thousand pounds?"
"Yes, a thousand pounds. But it must be money down. I leave England to-night. There are reasons which compel me, I don't know when I may return. Is it a bargain? Here is the stone."
Mr. Tyrrel took it with a hand which trembled. He gave just one glance at it His eyes gleamed.
"Will a cheque do?"
"An open cheque."
Mr. Tyrrel wrote an open cheque for a thousand pounds. He handed it to Mr. Brooke. With a mere "Thanks!" that gentleman passed from the shop, sprang into the hansom, and was driven away. Mr. Tyrrel stared after him amazed.
"I wonder what's up now?"
He picked up his purchase from where he had placed it on the counter. His hand still trembled. He went from the shop into an inner room.
"Mary, I've bought the diamond."
A note of exultation was in his voice. A young woman was leaving the room, a pile of linen in her arms. At the sound of her husband's voice she turned.
"Mr. Brooke's diamond?"
​"Mr. Brooke's! What do you think I gave for it? A thousand pounds."
"A thousand pounds!"
"I think that Brooke's gone mad. He might have got ten times the sum from almost anyone. He says that he has had a sudden call abroad, and wants the cash. It's his affair, not mine. Anyhow, I've bought the diamond. I gave him what he asked for it. Here it is."
Mrs. Tyrrel laid her pile of linen on the table. She took the stone which her husband held out to her. She selected a watchmaker's glass from among several which were on the mantel-shelf. Fitting it into her eye, she examined the stone under the light of the window.
"What a beauty!" She drew it closer to her eye. "What a beautiful stone!" She turned it over and over in her hand. "What is this speck of light right in the very heart of it?"
"What speck of light?"
Mr. Tyrrel selected a glass on his own account. In his turn he examined the stone. Hardly had he fitted the glass in its place when he gave an exclamation. He went nearer to the window.
"Give me a higher power!"
She chose another glass from those upon the shelf. She noticed that her husband's face had all at once turned pale. "What is the matter?"
He made no immediate answer. But no sooner had he begun to examine his purchase with the lens of higher power than he staggered back against the wall. He took the glass out of his eye. He looked round the room like a man who had received ​a sudden shock. All his animation of a moment before had disappeared.
"He's—he's ruined me! The thief! I understand it now. Why he wanted the cash, his haste, and the call abroad. What a fool I was! I had seen the stone so often, I thought I knew it so well, that I never thought of looking at it. I snapped him—I thought he'd change his mind—and he's snapped me."
His wife advanced to him.
"James, what is wrong? Isn't it the stone you thought it was?"
He laid his hand lightly on her arm.
"Hush! There's someone in the shop. See who it is."
She peeped through the curtain which screened the door.
"It's Mr. Hart."
"What does he want?" With his handkerchief Mr. Tyrrel mopped his brow. "I'll—I'll go and see."
In the shop there was a tall, portly gentleman. His overcoat, which was unbuttoned, was lined and trimmed with fur. About him there was an odour of wealth.
"How do, Tyrrel, how do? Mrs. Hart's going to be presented at the first Drawing-room—sheriffs wife, and that sort of thing, you know—and I want to give her something neat in diamonds. Thought I'd give you a turn—get them in the rough. Knew your father. He and I have had many a deal together. Got anything good just now?"
Mr. Tyrrel looked round and round the shop. He glanced behind him at the door which led into ​the inner room. He drew a long breath. "I—I happen to have one of the finest stones in England, Mr. Hart"
"Daresay! There are a good many of the finest stones in England about just now. And you want one of the finest prices in England for it too?"
"You are yourself something of a judge of diamonds."
"I am—something."
"Here is the stone. Examine it for yourself."
Mr. Tyrrel handed the stone to Mr. Hart. As he did so it was to be noticed that his hand still trembled. He mopped his brow as his visitor turned the stone over and over in his hands. His lips seemed parched, Mr. Hart took the stone to the door.
"Got a glass?" he asked.
Mr. Tyrrel hunted out a spy-glass. He seemed to have some difficulty in finding one. Mr. Hart fitted it into his eye.
"Not a very strong glass, this one of yours; I've seen stronger. But it's good enough to enable me to see that this is something like a diamond. What's the figure?"
Mr. Tyrrel moistened his lips. "Two thousand pounds."
"Too much!"
"It's dirt cheap, Mr. Hart. I've seen worse stones than that sold for ten thousand pounds. But I happen to be very much in want of ready cash."
"I don't deny that the stone's a good one. But it's in the rough, and it may cut up rough. And two thousand pounds is more than I care to pay for an ornament for a drawing-room, even though ​that drawing-room be Her Majesty's. But I'll tell you what I'll do, as I knew your father,I'll give you a cheque for fifteen hundred down upon the nail."
Again Mr. Tyrrel moistened his lips.
"I'll accept it."
A cheque changed hands almost as expeditiously as the one for a smaller amount had changed hands only a few minutes before. Mr. Hart departed with his purchase.
"I think I've scored that trick. If this diamond isn't worth fifteen hundred pounds and a bit more, why, then I'm wrong."
Mr. Hart then and there took a cab to the Bond Street headquarters of those famous jewellers, Messrs. Ruby and Golden. He was shown into the senior partner's private room.
"I want you to set this stone for me."
Mr. Ruby took very gingerly between his finger and his thumb the piece of crystal which Mr. Hart was holding out to him on the palm of his outstretched hand.
"A diamond, I see, and uncut. Rather a fine specimen." Mr. Ruby's eyes glistened. "May I ask in confidence from whom you obtained it?"
"From a friend in the trade."
Mr. Hart kept his eyes fixed upon the jeweller's face. His tone was dry.
"You don't happen to know, I suppose, if he has any more like this to dispose of?"
"Can't say that I do. What's it worth?"
"You see, Mr. Hart, the value of a diamond depends upon so many things. To us it depends in ​a measure on whether we have a customer who at the moment requires just such a stone."
"And you have such a customer? I see. Well, I bought it for my wife. I want you to cut it and mount it as a pin for the hair."
Mr. Ruby hesitated. He turned the jewel over and over in his hand.
"We are old friends, Mr. Hart. May I ask how much you gave for this?"
"Two thousand pounds."
It was true that Mr. Tyrrel had asked two thousand. Mr. Hart had probably forgotten that he had beaten him down to fifteen hundred.
"Two thousand pounds? You are a man of business, Mr. Hart. I daresay you have no objection to making a little profit even out of a diamond. I will be frank with you. We happen to have a valuable customer who is particularly in want of just such a stone as this. It is on that account that I venture, even in Mr. Golden's absence, to offer you for your two-thousand-pound purchase three thousand pounds; a clear profit of a thousand pounds."
"A thousand pounds!" Mr. Hart stroked his chin. "My dear sir, I'm not reduced to selling my wife's diamonds."
"Has Mrs. Hart yet seen the stone?"
"Not yet she hasn't. I bought it not half an hour ago."
"Then the thing is simplified. I will carry my offer farther. I will give you three thousand pounds for the stone, and will allow you to select, in addition, any articles from our stock to the cash value of a thousand pounds."
​The corners of Mr. Hart's lips twitched. He smiled. "It's a deal."
It was. Mr. Hart left the Bond Street establishment with a cheque for three thousand pounds in his pocket, and in a red morocco case a set of very pretty diamond ornaments for a lady's hair. The stone which he had purchased from Mr, Tyrrel he left behind.
"Mr. Hart thinks himself a shrewd man," Mr. Ruby told himself when that gentleman had gone, "but he is not quite so shrewd as he thinks. This is the very stone the Duke is looking for. Unless I am mistaken, he will give us for it rather more than four thousand pounds."
About an hour after Mr. Golden entered Mr. Ruby's room. The senior partner rubbed his hands as the junior entered.
"I have been indulging in a little deal while you have been out—a little deal in diamonds."
The junior partner glanced sharply at the senior. In appearance Mr. Ruby was very different from Mr. Golden. Mr. Ruby was large and florid. Mr. Golden was slight and dark, with keen, bright eyes.
"I have lighted on the very stone we have been trying to find for the Duke, and I have bought it on the nail out and out."
"The deuce you have! What did you give for it?"
"Three thousand in cash and a thousand in stock."
"Let me look at it"
Mr. Golden held out his hand. Mr. Ruby produced the stone from the inner recesses of a large safe in a corner of the room. Mr. Golden took it to the window. He examined it minutely for some ​moments with his naked eye. Then, taking a spy-glass from his waistcoat pocket, he examined it through that. Scarcely had he placed the glass in its place than he sprang round at Mr. Ruby.
"Ruby!" Strong words seemed trembling on his lips. If that were so, he exercised an effort of self-control. "You've been done!"
"Mr. Golden!"
"How many times have I asked you not to buy diamonds in my absence!"
Mr. Ruby's face was pasty-hued. "But—but it's one of the finest diamonds I've ever seen."
Mr. Golden's glance was expressive of the most supreme contempt. "Look at it through that, and tell me if you see nothing."
Mr. Ruby looked at the diamond through his partner's spy-glass. "I—I can only see that it is a very beautiful stone."
"Can't you see, right in the centre, what looks like a speck of light?"
"Now that I look into it closely, there certainly does seem to be something of the kind. But it is so slight that, even with this strong glass, it is scarcely noticeable."
"And yet, sooner or later, it will shiver that stone to splinters."
"Mr. Golden!"
"I have seen it before, and I know what it is. It is a sort of disease to which African diamonds are peculiarly liable, especially the finest stones. I wish to goodness, Ruby, that you would leave these things to me. That speck of light is a crack in the grain of the stone. It will increase in size, ramifying in ​all directions, until, at a certain point, the stone will shiver—blow up, in fact. The thing may happen in ten minutes. It may not happen for months. It will happen some time or other, to a certainty. Any man who really knows something of diamonds will tell you that"
Mr. Ruby had sunk back in his seat He seemed ill at ease. "But—but can't we sell it to the Duke? It's the very stone he wants."
Mr. Golden smiled "We can sell it to the Duke if it lasts long enough. The attempt to cut it may bring about the smash. I've known it happen before to-day."
"We'll try, at any rate—we'll try! You may be wrong. Golden; I really think you may be."
"I may be." Mr. Golden's tone was grim.
"I'll have it put into hand at once. It's a glorious stone. One of the finest stones I've ever seen. It would be a bargain to anyone at—at ten thousand pounds."
II.—THE OTHER.
"Hollo, Fungst!"
"Brooke!"
Unannounced Mr. Brooke had entered the room. He had taken Mr. Fungst unawares. Mr. Fungst stared at him amazed. He was a paunchy little man, with black, curly, well-greased hair, which he parted in the middle. Uninvited, his visitor took a chair.
"I've only just reached Paris. Left London this afternoon, and came straight on here."
​"This is—this is funny. This is very funny indeed." Mr. Fungst said "dis" instead of "this," and "vunny" instead of "funny." "Is—is it anything you have come to see about?"
"Only you, my Fungst—only you."
The two friends looked at each other. Mr. Brooke's lips were parted by a smile. There was a curious look in Mr. Fungst's eyes. He seemed rather ill at ease.
"That is very funny. Do you know, I was putting a few things together to come over to London to-night to have a little talk with you."
"What was to be the purport of the talk, my Fungst?"
"It was only about a little thing. It was just a word I wished to say to you about"—Mr. Fungst glanced at the floor, then up again—"about the diamond."
"The diamond?" Mr. Brooke's smile grew more pronounced.
"Just a little talk."
"It's sold."
"Sold? What! The diamond?"
A singular change took place in Mr. Fungst's appearance. His jaw dropped. His eyes seemed to increase in size. His paunchy frame seemed to quiver under emotion."
"I found a customer this morning."
"What did you get for it? Twenty—thirty thousand pounds?"
Mr. Brooke laughed outright. "Not quite so much as that"
"Not so much? What did you get for it?"
​"A thousand down."
"A—thousand—down! A—thousand—pounds! Mein Gott!" Mr. Fungst's face was a picture. He seemed divided between tears and rage. "Oh, Harold Brooke, what a fool you are!"
"Not such a fool as I look, my Fungst. The stone was a wrong un."
"A wrong un! What you call a wrong un?"
"It was afflicted with the shivers. Cracked, my boy. It is more than probable that by now it is splintered into dust."
"Oh, good 'evins! Harold Brooke, what a fool you are!" Mr. Fungst raised his two fat hands above his well-oiled head, as if he were appealing to the skies. "It is more than a week ago since I saw in my own stone, in the very heart of it, a spot like a little speck of light."
"It was only this morning that I observed the same phenomenon in mine. I knew from painful experience what it meant."
"You knew what it meant? You thought you knew what it meant. As a matter of fact, you knew nothing at all about it, any more than me. When I see this little spot, I say to myself, 'It is all over. You are done for. Bang goes your little pile.' I have seen stones begin like that, and pulverise within a quarter of an hour—twenty minutes. It is a mystery which no man understands, not even the man who thinks he knows the most. I was fit to tear my hair. I rushed off in a cab, determined to sell the stone at any price if I could only be in time. You know how they used to do that sort of thing at Kimberley. As I was in the cab I kept looking ​at my stone through my spy-glass to see how it was getting on. My heart was fit to break. All of a sudden I see something which I had never seen before. The little spot of white light had turned into a little spot of colour. It was as though a little spot of blood had got into the very centre of the stone. I say to myself, 'It is certain that if I try to sell the stone just as it is I shall get nothing for it—scarcely anything at all. About this affair there is something which I do not understand.' There is no man living who understands all the inns and outs of diamonds—no chemist, no scientist, I care not who it is. There are mysteries about diamonds which never yet have been explained. I have known some of them within the range of my own experience. So I say to myself, 'There is a mystery in this. If I sell the diamond now, a loss is certain; if I see the mystery through, the loss is problematical. I will see the mystery through.' I came back home again. I put the diamond away. I did not look at it for two whole days.
"When, after two whole days, I came to open the little box in which I had placed the diamond, I scarcely dared to open the lid. I felt that, as you say, my heart was in my boots. I felt as though my heart was made of jelly, and that it was melting all away." Mr. Fungst paused. He raised his fat forefinger. He pointed it at Mr. Brooke. "I say to myself, 'Have courage.' Then I take a little nip of brandy. That give me strength. Then I have a smoke. Then I raise the lid." Mr. Fungst raised himself on tiptoe. He seemed to increase in size. "My friend, there was the diamond. But what a ​diamond! It was a rose brilliant But such a rose brilliant as the world has never seen!"
Mr. Brooke laughed a little awkwardly. "I say, Fungst, aren't you piling it on?"
"Am I piling it on? You shall see for yourself if I am piling it on." Mr. Fungst took a little leather bag out of an inner pocket of his coat. He handed it to Mr. Brooke. "Open it, and see if I am piling it on."
Mr. Brooke untied the cord which bound the neck of the bag. Within nestled a diamond—a rose brilliant, but of such a hue! "Red as a rose was" not exactly "she," but "it." Mr. Brooke feasted his eyes upon its beauties. The stone was still uncut. Its greatest beauties were therefore still unrevealed. But even in its rough state it was a masterpiece of light and colour.
"What a stone!"
Mr. Fungst stood in front of his friend. He rubbed his hands together. He sprang from foot to foot "Do I pile it on?"
"But, I say, Fungst, this seems to me very like a miracle. I can scarcely credit that such a stone as this was only the other day a pure white diamond with something which looked very like a crack in it."
"I tell you there are mysteries in diamonds which no man understands—not any one."
"What are you going to do with it?"
"That is just the point on which I wished to speak to you. You know J. F. Flinders, the American millionaire? Billionaire he must be, rather, because they say his income is nearly a million yearly. He is in Paris. His daughter is going to be married. ​He is looking for a wedding present for her; something a little out of the common. I went to him. I show him this. I tell him I think I know where there is another like it. He offered me for the pair—for the pair, you understand——" Mr. Fungst leaned over. He whispered in his friend's ear.
"You don't mean it?"
"To a centime that is what he offered."
Mr. Brooke whistled. "And I sold it for a thousand pounds!"
"To whom did you sell it?"
"To a man named Tyrrel."
Mr. Brooke had risen from his seat. He began to walk about the room.
"Tyrrel of Clerkenwell?"
"The same."
"Then, after all, to-night I must go to London. It is for me to buy it back again."
"For you?" Mr. Brooke faced round. "It strikes me, Fungst, that it's for me to buy it back again."
"Very good, my friend. But it is possible that Mr. Tyrrel may know more about diamonds than you. He will want more than his thousand pounds."
Mr. Brooke bit his lip. "He knows me. He will give me credit."
"As to that we shall see."
Mr. Fungst began to cram some things into a Gladstone bag. Mr. Brooke watched him for some moments. Then he went and touched him on the shoulder.
"Look here, Fungst, what are you driving at? What do you think you're going to do?"
​Mr. Fungst turned to his friend all frankness.
"All I wish is that we should have the pair—just you and I."
Mr. Brooke retained his grasp upon his friend's shoulder, nor did he remove his inquisitorial glance from his friend's frank features. "Yes, just you"—with the fingers of his disengaged hand Mr. Brooke tapped himself on the chest—"and I."
III.—THE TWO.
"My friend, could you tell me just one thing?"
Ivor Dacre glanced down at the speaker. He was a little rotund fellow. He spoke with a strong foreign accent. On his features there was the impress of the German Jew, and not by any means of the highest type of German Jew. He looked oddly out of place in the midst of that gorgeous assemblage, built rather for the purlieus of Houndsditch than for the Marquis of Clonkilty's ballroom. Mr. Dacre could scarcely believe that the profusely-perspiring little man addressed himself to him, but Mr. Fungst removed all misapprehension on that score by twitching Mr. Dacre by the lapel of his coat.
He repeated his inquiry.
"My friend, could you tell me just one thing?"
"If it is in my power."
"Could you tell me which is the Duchess of Datchet."
"The Duchess of Datchet?"
​Ivor Dacre smiled outright. The idea of there being any possible association between that oily Houndsditch Hebrew and the latest and brightest queen of the London season—the bride of but a month or two—struck him as too ludicrous. Mr. Dacre was possessed of that rare attribute, a sense of humour. A wicked idea entered his head.
"Are you a friend of her Grace's?"
"I am not a friend exactly, but there is a little business which I wish to do with her."
A little business! In the Marquis of Clonkilty's ballroom! With the Queen of Hearts!
Mr. Dacre's eyes wandered round the room. They passed from dancer to dancer. At last they rested upon one. As they did so he raised his hand to his moustache, possibly to conceal the smile which he could not restrain.
"You see that lady over there?"
"There are so many ladies. Upon my soul, I never see so many ladies."
"The lady in the dark green dress with the nose-glasses."
"The old girl with the moustache?"
"Precisely—the old girl with the moustache." Mr. Dacre's smile almost expanded into a grin. "That is the Duchess of Datchet."
Without a word of thanks Mr. Fungst strode off. He ploughed his way through the dancers without paying the slightest regard to the evolutions they were attempting to perform. Mr. Dacre watched him go with a degree of delight which seemed on the point of producing an inward convulsion. All at once Mr. Fungst pulled up right ​in front of a couple—they both were young—who seemed in blissful enjoyment of the waltz.
"She hasn't got it on, so help me!"
"Sir!"
The young gentleman whose path he had impeded addressed him with a degree of scorn which was intended to be crushing. Mr. Fungst was not at all abashed.
"I wasn't speaking to you, my friend." Then, to himself, still audibly, "Mein Gott! If she has lost it!"
Striding forward, he caught a lady by the arm. She had on a dark green dress. She wore a pair of nose-glasses. More than the suggestion of a moustache adorned her upper lip. She was beginning to be stricken in years. But that did not prevent her waltzing, with apparent enjoyment, with a gentleman who seemed at least ten years her junior. She and her partner were still moving to the rhythm of the music when Mr. Fungst caught her by the arm.
"Excuse me, my name is Fungst, Jacob Fungst. There is a little word I wish to speak to you just now."
The lady stopped, startled. She turned. When her glance fell on Mr. Fungst—it had to fall some distance—she drew herself up and shuddered as though she had come into sudden contact with an iceberg.
"Who is this person?"
"Fungst," explained the owner of that name. "There is just a little thing about which I wish to speak to you two words outside."
​The lady addressed her cavalier, "Will you please take me away? This person is a stranger to me."
He took her away. As Mr. Fungst continued to stare after the retreating pair someone touched him on the shoulder. It was a young gentleman who wore a single eyeglass. It is not impossible that he had been commissioned by Mr. Ivor Dacre, who is the soul of mischief.
"Don't you think you're rather blocking the way? What is it you want?"
"I wish to say just two words to the Duchess of Datchet"
"That is not the Duchess of Datchet." The young gentleman drew him aside. "That is the Duchess of Datchet"
As he spoke the music ceased. The dance was ended. The gentlemen began to lead the ladies to their seats. In front of Mr. Fungst there passed a woman who was tall and most divinely fair. Her hair was of the colour of the rich red gold. Where its glorious mass was thickest there gleamed a diamond. It was the diamond and not the woman which caught the eye of Mr. Fungst
"Mein Gott!"—he uttered what seemed to be his favourite imprecation—"it's changed!"
Something seemed to startle him so greatly that he actually allowed the lady to pass, and unmolested. She leaned on the arm of a gentleman who was not only much taller than herself, but, in his way, as handsome. There was probably no handsomer couple in the room. And yet the lady seemed ill at ease, although the gentleman was smiling at her all the time.
​"That was the Duchess of Datchet," observed Mr. Fungst's new acquaintance, who had been observing him with unconcealed amusement
Mr. Fungst awoke as though from a stupor. Again there came that adjuration, "Mein Gott!—she's gone!"
She was. And before Mr. Fungst caught sight of her again the Duchess of Datchet's carriage had been called, and her Grace was in it, driving from the ball.
The Duchess had the carriage to herself. A gentleman had escorted her to the door. As he closed it he murmured just one word—
"Remember!"
She, leaning forward, had replied, "Do you think I can forget?"
As the vehicle passed swiftly through the night, if one might judge from the expression on her countenance, it did not seem as though she could. Once she put up her small gloved hands and veiled her face—veiled it though there was no one there to see. She took a little card from the bosom of her dress. It was the programme of the ball. It was a white card. The back was blank, or, rather, it would have been if it had not been for certain pencil marks. The pencil marks were figures. On the back of the programme was a little sum in compound addition. It was cast up. The total was stated. The sight of that total seemed to cause her Grace discomfort. "If I could only lay my hand upon the money!"
The carriage reached home. As the Duchess entered the hall a servant advanced to meet her. He addressed the lady in a confidential whisper.
​"A gentleman wishes to see your Grace. He has been waiting more than an hour."
The Duchess shivered. She drew her cloak closer round her. Possibly she felt the air a trifle cold. "Has the Duke returned?"
"Not yet, your Grace."
"Show the gentleman into my sitting-room."
She did not ask the visitor's name. But when she was alone in her own apartment she veiled her face with her hands again. Only for a moment. When the door opened all traces of agitation had disappeared. There entered a young and comely man who, although he was dressed in rough-and-ready morning costume, looked as though he were a man of breeding. At sight of him the Duchess started. It almost seemed as if he were not at all the sort of person she had expected to see. She waited for the visitor to speak. This the visitor appeared to experience some little difficulty in doing.
"I must crave your Grace's forgiveness for my intrusion at this unseasonable hour, but circumstances of a peculiar nature——"
He paused. In his turn he started. His eyes were fixed upon the Duchess's head—upon the glory of her hair. He gave an exclamation of surprise.
"It's changed! Fungst was right!"
"Sir!"
The Duchess drew back. She appeared to find the stranger's demeanour slightly singular—as well she might. He continued staring at her as though he could not take his eyes away. He was, all at once, possessed with a strange excitement.
​"Your Grace must forgive me if the offer I am about to make to you seems strange, as it cannot help but seem. If you knew all I am sure you would forgive me. I will give you ten thousand pounds for the diamond in your hair!"
"You will give me ten thousand pounds—for the diamond—in my hair?"
Half mechanically the lady raised her hand to her head Her fingers lighted on the jewel which gleamed among her tresses. As they did so, and some faint comprehension of the stranger's meaning dawned upon her mind, her face became a crimson-red.
"My husband's present! Are you a madman, sir; or do you purposely insult me?"
"That diamond was mine. On its possession I had founded all my hopes of fortune. It was taken from me by means of a trick." Perhaps Mr. Brooke thought he spoke the truth. One can but hope he did. "I received for it not a twentieth part of the sum I offer you." Again he slightly erred. "But rather than it should be lost to me for ever, poor as I am, I will give you—I will give you—twelve thousand pounds."
"Twelve thousand pounds!" Her Grace's hand was lifted to her corsage. Possibly it brushed against the ball programme, with the compound addition sum upon its back, which lay within. "You will give me twelve thousand pounds?" She drew a deep breath. "But—but it's absurd! Who are you, sir, that you forget who I am?"
"What does it matter who I am? I am Harold Brooke. I am the modern equivalent of the soldier ​of fortune, and you have my fortune—my fortune—in your hair! Twelve did I say I'd give? For my fortune back again I'll give you fifteen thousand pounds!"
"Fifteen thousand pounds!" Her Grace's hands veiled her Grace's face again. "Am I going mad? Fifteen thousand pounds!" She sat down. Her agitation seemed extraordinary. She was positively trembling. "It is not to be thought of."
"I will give you twenty!"
"Twenty—twenty thousand pounds!"
There was silence. Mr. Brooke leaned forward, looking down at her. She looked up at him. With her right hand she grasped the upper portion of her corsage. This time there was no mistake about it—between her fingers she pressed that programme of the ball. Her face became cold and set. She became all at once a little older. The character of her beauty seemed to change. It was stern and hard.
"Your behaviour is that of a madman. I am scarcely less mad than you, or I should not continue to listen. How am I to know that you are not, as you very probably are, trifling with me all the time?"
"Promise me that the diamond shall be mine if I bring you the money in the morning."
"Twenty thousand pounds?"
"Twenty thousand pounds!"
"Twenty? I will give you thirty!"
The voice said "dirty." Mr. Brooke sprang round. Her Grace stood up. A little man, almost as broad as he was tall, was standing at the open door. Entering, he closed the door behind him.
​"Fungst!"
"So, Brooke" he said, "you thought to do me. But I am not done so easily, my friend."
"How did you get here?"
"That is my secret. There are more ways than one of getting into the Duke of Datchet's house, my friend."
The two men stood staring at each other. Mr. Brooke with clenched fists and a flush upon his face. Mr. Fungst with his crush-hat under his arm, his hands in his overcoat pockets, and an ungenial smile upon his lips. As for the Duchess, she stood staring at them both. The march of events seemed to have deprived her of a little of her breath. When she did speak she addressed herself to Mr. Fungst.
"May I ask, sir, what is the meaning of this intrusion, and who you are?"
"I am Jacob Fungst, that's who I am. If it was not for me he would not have had the stone at all. And when he make a fool of himself and sell it—if it was not for me he would not have known what it was that he had sold. Now, when I have found a market for the stone, he tries to do me, his friend, his very good friend indeed, out of the market I have found. That is why, when he say twenty thousand, I say thirty; and not in the morning, but cash down."
"Fungst, I advise you to be careful."
"I will be careful. Be easy in your mind, I will be careful. It is a thing of which I am very fond—carefulness."
Mr. Brooke touched his friend lightly on the shoulder. "I only seek my share of the spoil."
​"Your share? Very good. Get what share you please. It is the same to me. It is your behind-the-door ways I do not like." Mr. Fungst turned to the Duchess. He stretched out his hand. "I have been running after that diamond all through the town— yes, night and day—from the pillar to the post. I trace it home to you. I learn that it was presented to you this morning to wear to-night at the Marquis of Clonkilty's ball. At the Marquis of Clonkilty's ball I see it in your hair."
Her Grace's bewilderment seemed to be increasing. "The Marquis of Clonkilty's ball! You?"
"Yes, me. I go to the door of the house. I ask for you. There was a crowd of people. They do not seem to understand. They say, 'What name?' I say, 'Fungst.' They show me up the stairs. I find myself in the middle of the ball. I say to myself, 'This is funny. Since I am here, well, I will look for the stone.' I look for the stone. I see it in your hair. The sight so surprises me, I lose my head. When I find it, I find you gone. I come after you. I come here. It takes me some time and a little diplomacy"—Mr. Fungst patted his waistcoat pocket—"to get into the house. It was more trouble, a great deal more trouble, than to get into the Marquis of Clonkilty's ball. But when I do get in I offer you for the diamond, money down, thirty thousand pounds."
Again Mr. Brooke touched his friend upon the shoulder.
"Fungst, you will have to reckon with me."
"I will reckon with you, never fear. I will tell the lady why I offer for the diamond thirty thousand ​pounds. It is a great price, a very great price, to offer for one diamond. It is because I have the other stone just like it, and I wish to make a pair. I will show the other stone to the lady. She will see I tell the truth." Mr. Fungst began groping in the inner pocket of his coat. He produced a little leather bag. "It is in this bag." He was holding the bag between the fingers of his right hand. Suddenly a curious expression began to creep over his features. "It is very funny," He hesitated. "It is in this bag." He began to untie the cord which bound the neck of the bag. In the midst of the operation he paused. He felt the contents of the bag with the fingers of either hand. "It is—it is very funny." His face assumed a curious leaden hue. "It is in this bag."
Mr. Brooke advanced.
"What's the matter, Fungst?"
"It—it is nothing. It—it is very funny. The stone is in this bag." He continued to untie the cord. It was all untied. With peculiar circumspection he opened the neck of the bag. He peeped within. He continued to peep within, as if to explore its depths were a work of time. He staggered backwards.
"Mein Gott! It's gone! I'm robbed!"
"Robbed!" cried Mr. Brooke. He took the bag out of Mr. Fungsfs unresisting hand. There was a strange expression on his face; there was a curious glitter in his eyes. As he peeped into the bag he laughed, not pleasantly. "Not robbed, my Fungst—not robbed. The diamond's here." He turned the bag upside down upon the table. There came ​out a little mass of tiny sparkling crystals. They formed upon the table a small heap of glittering dust Mr. Brooke pointed to it with his hand.
"There's your rose brilliant, Fungst."
Mr. Fungst came forward. He leaned over the table. He stared at the gleaming atoms.
"Mein Gott! It's gone off bang!"
"As you say, my Fungst, it has gone off bang. Who was right, my Fungst? Personally, I never knew a diamond which, when attacked by the shivers, sooner or later did not go off bang. I am inclined to wager that even the Duchess of Datchet's beautiful rose brilliant will go off bang."
Her Grace stared. She had been a mystified spectator of the little scene which had been enacted before her eyes. Indeed, the whole proceedings were mysterious to her.
"Rose brilliant? What do you mean?"
"The rose brilliant in your Grace's hair."
"There is no rose brilliant in my hair. There is only the diamond which my husband gave me."
"Did not his Grace present you with a rose brilliant?"
"A rose brilliant? No! He gave me a white diamond."
"Then the transformation has happened since."
"Transformation? What do you mean?"
She took the jewel out of her hair. As her glance fell upon it the fashion of her countenance changed. She scarcely seemed to believe the evidence of her own eyes.
"This—this is not my diamond."
Mr. Brooke's laughing eyes were divided between her Grace and her Grace's jewel. "I think it is."
​"But—mine was white, and—this is red."
Mr. Fungst's glance was fixed upon the jewel, gloating on its beauties. "So mine was white. Then it went red. Now it has gone off bang! Oh, the lovely stone!"
Mr. Brooke laughed softly. "I am afraid that your Grace must permit me to withdraw my offer of twenty thousand pounds, or even of ten. The diamond, beautiful though it is, belongs to a rather more speculative class of goods than I quite care to dabble in."
The Duchess still held the jewel in her hand. She had never for a moment removed her glance from it. It seemed to exercise upon her gaze a sort of fascination.
"It's alive!"
"Alive?"
Mr. Brooke came nearer. Mr. Fungst craned forward. They were a curious trio. The Duchess's tones were low and eager.
"Something seems to be moving within."
"So there does." In Mr. Brooke's voice there was a sound as of laughter.
"It's changing colour." Mr. Fungst spoke almost with a gasp.
"For ever! Look out!" Mr. Brooke spoke just in time. There was a little crack. The diamond had disappeared. Three pairs of eyes were still bent upon her Grace's hand. But it was empty—the diamond had gone.
"It's gone off bang!"
"What do you mean?" exclaimed the Duchess. "What has happened?"
​"When your servants sweep the room in the morning your Grace should give them instructions to be careful. A diamond which was your husband's present, and for which your Grace was offered thirty thousand pounds, lies in dust upon the floor."
With his hand Mr. Fungst scraped the perspiration from his brow. "Mein Gott! It's gone off bang!" he said.