finger and thumb and placed it on his plate.
It was round in shape, the size of a very large pill or a smallish marble, and of a dull color, like that of rusted tin. My father poured on, and by the time that the last of the wine was out no less than seven of these strange objects lay in a neat group on my father's plate, one lying by itself a little removed from the others.
"I have placed this one apart," observed my father, pointing to the solitary marble, "because it is much lighter than any of the others. Let us examine it first."
"I propose that we examine the six first," said Sir Matthew, in a tone of suppressed excitement.
"As you will, Sir Matthew," said my father gravely, and he took up one of the six that lay in a group. "The surface," said he, looking round, "appears to be composed of tin."
We all agreed. The surface was composed of tin; a line running down the middle showed where the tin had been carefully and dexterously soldered together. Sir Matthew having felt in his pocket, produced a large penknife and opened a strong blade. He held out the knife toward my father blade foremost, such was his agitation.
"Thank you, Sir Matthew," said my father in courteous and calm voice, reaching round the blade and grasping the handle.
Absolute silence now fell on the company; my father was perfectly composed. He forced the point of the knife into the surface of the object and made a gap; then he peeled off the surface of tin. I felt Sylvia's eyes turn to mine, but I did not remove my gaze from my father's plate. Five times did my father repeat his operation, placing what was left in each case on the table-cloth in front of him. When he had finished his task he looked up at Sir Matthew. Sir Matthew's face bore a look of mingled bewilderment and triumph; he opened his mouth to speak; a gesture of my father's hand imposed silence on him.
"It remains," said my father, "to examine the seventh object.
The seventh object was treated as its companions had been; the result was different. From the shelter of the sealed tin covering came a small roll of paper. My father unfolded it; faded lines of writing appeared on it.
"Uncle John's hand," said my father solemnly. "I propose to read what he says."
"An explanation is undoubtedly desirable," remarked Sir Matthew.
"Aren't they beautiful?" whispered Sylvia longingly.
A glance from my father rebuked her; he began to read what Colonel Merridew had written. Here it is:
"That old fool Marston, having made the life of everybody on board the ship a burden to them on account of his miserable rubies, and having dogged my footsteps and spied upon my actions in a most offensive manner, I determined to give him a lesson. So I took these stones from his cabin and carried them to my house. I was about to return them when he found his way into my house and accused me—me, Colonel John Merridew—of being a thief. What followed is known to my family. The result of Sir George's intemperate behavior was to make it impossible for me to return the rubies without giving rise to an impression most injurious to my honor, I have therefore placed them in this bottle. They will not be discovered during my life-time or in that of Sir George. When they are discovered, I request that they may be returned to his son with my compliments and an expression of my hope that he is not such a fool as his father,
"John Merridew, Colonel."
Continued silence followed the reading of this document. The Maharajah's rubies glittered and gleamed on the table-cloth. My father looked up at Uncle John's picture. To my excited fancy the old gentleman seemed to smile more broadly than before. My father gathered the rubies into his hand and held them out to Sir Matthew.
"You have heard Colonel Merridew's message, sir," said my father. "There is, I presume, no need for me to repeat it. Allow me to hand you the rubies."
Sir Matthew bowed stiffly, took the Maharajah's rubies, counted them carefully, and dropped them one by one into his waistcoat pocket,
"Take away that bottle of port," said my father. "The tin will have ruined the flavor."
"What shall I do with it, sir?" asked Dawson.
"Whatever you please," said my father, and looking up again at Uncle John's picture, he exclaimed in an admiring tone,
"An uncommon man, indeed! How few would have contrived so perfect a hiding-place!"
"Sylvia," said Sir Matthew, "get your
