the way from Chicago to behold the Gobi Diamond which you have advertised for sale throughout the country. Legends about it are cropping up everywhere, even in the wind that blows through the wheatlands."
Chang Kien rose to his feet. He was all apologies. "Forgive me for forgetting your purpose here," he said, "but when my mind is plunged in literature it is as though I walk in a sweet dream. Lovely words are jewels more gorgeous than any precious stone. They enthrall me far more greatly. A stone delights the material eye, gorgeous words appeal to the spiritual."
As he spoke he crossed the room to a wall-safe, a simple affair which is customarily builded into the better-class houses. In a few moments he returned with a red velvet box.
Without a word he drew from it an enormous diamond which he placed upon the table before him where the electric lamps gleamed upon it, causing it to flash and scintillate with a wondrous fire. It was blue-white like moonlight sparkling on a blue lake.
Ives Cranston gasped. He took a step forward. His face was flushed. It seemed hard for him to breathe as though he were suffocated by its magnificence. His hands trembled. They fluttered nervously about the diamond, afraid to touch it, yet caught in the web of its witchery.
"Examine it," suggested Chang Kien, "you can better then judge of its perfection." He was perfectly composed. Once more he seated himself in the great armchair. He sipped languidly at his tea. He paid little attention to the diamond. He thought of the written picture of Ho Shao-Chi:
The single butterfly comes—
Goes—
Comes—
Returning as though urged by love.
The tea in his cup was cold, so he took a fresh cup and filled it from the pot that had been singing softly, kept warm by an alcohol lamp.
And now Ives Cranston held the glowing blue diamond in his hands. He caressed it as though it were alive. He crooned softly to it. The expression of his face was like that of one hypnotized.
Chang Kien gazed at him and smiled. It was foolish to go into such ecstasies over a jewel. Now a perfect quatrain or an unpublished poem by the immortal Li T'ai-Po would be something quite different. But a jewel that contained no music.
He was interrupted in his musings by the voice of Ives Cranston. Chang Kien was a man of moods. His mind was like the sky, ever-changing, ever-charming. But his opinions varied upon occasion. At the moment his mind was filled with wondrous poetry. At other times art and prose held him equally enthralled.
"What is the price of this Jewel?" asked Cranston hoarsely.
"How can one put a price on perfection?" replied Chang Kien quizzically. "In all the world there is no other stone exactly identical to that. Jewels are like people. No two are alike. Pearls, for instance, can be matched as to size and color and fire, but they are not duplicates any more than are two men of similar appearance. I do not say that this is the most marvelous diamond in the world, but such as it is, there is no other to absolutely match it."
Ives Cranston seemed surprised. "You adveritsed the gem for sale," he said. "Throughout the length and breadth of the country strange tales and legends are being circulated about it. Its fame could not be greater if you employed a press-agent. Yet now you refuse to set a price upon it."
Chang Kien smiled. "I advertised it in twelve leading cities," he explained. "An art treasure of this sort cannot be disposed of by confining oneself to a single locality. I have had a constant stream of collectors to view it. Some have come all the way from the Pacific Coast."
"If you refuse to put a price upon the diamond," persisted Cranston, "how do you expect to sell it?"
"Merely by bids," was the reply. "If you care you may give the matter thought and mail me a bid. If it is satisfactory I shall reply. If not, the interlude will be over. I sometimes wonder after all whether I would not be disappointed if I succeeded in finding a purchaser."
