the "M. Cuttynge." What he thought I could not guess. But he went ahead warily.
"About those pearls you sold me this morning, my dear Delmas," said he, in his harsh voice.
The man s nervousness increased. He glanced at me.
"Will you give yourselves the trouble to enter my private room," says he, and led the way into a sort of office, richly furnished in Louis XIV. In the centre stood a heavy table with a few chairs about it, and a studio window let in the light from over head. There were a couple of large hand-lenses and some different coloured stuffs against which to show the jewels.
As we entered the room Rosenthal gave me a bit of a nudge, which I took to mean that I was to leave the talking to him. We seated ourselves—the Baron and I on one side of the table, the dealer opposite us.
"About this little purchase of mine," said Rosenthal, taking out the pearls and laying them on the table. "My friend is not quite content. He is inclined to doubt your right to sell them."
The dealer looked very much upset.
"Mr. Cuttynge is right," said he, in an agitated voice. We were speaking in French. "It is true that when he sold me the pearls it was understood between us that I was not to sell them for a year. I also assured M. Cuttynge that I would not sell the string exactly as it was when worn by Madame Cuttynge, but would make certain substitutions which should render it impossible to recognise the string. I am overwhelmed with regret and remorse."
