"And yet you go to Hatton Garden every day."
"What!" cried Bouvier, letting his hand fall from the table, "you know that too?"
"Of course," Dorrington laughed, easily; "it is my trade, I tell you. But write the cheque."
Bouvier produced a crumpled and dirty cheque-book and complied, with many pauses, looking up dazedly from time to time into Dorrington's face.
"Now," said Dorrington, "tell me where you kept your diamond, and all about it."
"It was in an old little wooden box—so." Bouvier, not yet quite master of himself, sketched an oblong of something less than three inches long by two broad. "The box was old and black—my grandfather may have made it, or his father. The lid fitted very tight, and the inside was packed with fine charcoal powder with the diamond resting in it. The diamond—oh, it was great; like that—so." He made another sketch, roughly square, an inch and a quarter across. "But it looked even much greater still, so bright, so wonderful! It is easy to understand that my grandfather did not sell it—beside the danger. It is so beautiful a
