stones to Charles to examine. Her doubt was contagious. I half feared, myself, he might break out into a deep monosyllabic interjection, losing his temper in haste, as he often does when things go wrong. But he looked at them with a smile, while I told him the price.
'Eight hundred pounds less than their value,' he answered, well satisfied.
'You have no doubt of their reality?' I asked.
'Not the slightest,' he replied, gazing at them. 'They are genuine stones, precisely the same in quality and type as Amelia’s necklet.'
Amelia drew a sigh of relief. 'I'll go upstairs,' she said slowly, 'and bring down my own for you both to compare with them.'
One minute later she rushed down again, breathless. Amelia is far from slim, and I never before knew her exert herself so actively.
'Charles, Charles!' she cried, 'do you know what dreadful thing has happened? Two of my own stones are gone. He's stolen a couple of diamonds from my necklet, and sold them back to me.'
She held out the rivière. It was all too true. Two gems were missing—and these two just fitted the empty places!
A light broke in upon me. I clapped my hand to my head. 'By Jove,' I exclaimed, 'the little curate is—Colonel Clay!'
Charles clapped his own hand to his brow in turn. 'And Jessie,' he cried, 'White Heather—that
