The Victorian Rogues MEGAPACK ®. Морис Леблан

he looked down at them inquiringly.

      Charles was too precipitate.

      “A hundred pounds more or less matters little to me,” he said; “and my wife has set her heart on them. It’s every man’s duty to please his wife—isn’t it, Mrs. Brabazon?—I offer you three hundred.”

      The little Scotch girl clasped her hands.

      “Three hundred pounds! Oh, Dick, just think what fun we could have, and what good we could do with it! Do let him have them.”

      Her accent was irresistible. But the curate shook his head.

      “Impossible,” he answered. “My dear mother’s ear-rings! Uncle Aubrey would be so angry if he knew I’d sold them. I daren’t face Uncle Aubrey.”

      “Has he expectations from Uncle Aubrey?” Sir Charles asked of White Heather.

      Mrs. Brabazon laughed. “Uncle Aubrey! Oh, dear, no. Poor dear old Uncle Aubrey! Why, the darling old soul hasn’t a penny to bless himself with, except his pension. He’s a retired post captain.” And she laughed melodiously. She was a charming woman.

      “Then I should disregard Uncle Aubrey’s feelings,” Sir Charles said decisively.

      “No, no,” the curate answered. “Poor dear old Uncle Aubrey! I wouldn’t do anything for the world to annoy him. And he’d be sure to notice it.”

      We went back to Amelia. “Well, have you got them?” she asked.

      “No,” Sir Charles answered. “Not yet. But he’s coming round, I think. He’s hesitating now. Would rather like to sell them himself, but is afraid what ‘Uncle Aubrey’ would say about the matter. His wife will talk him out of his needless consideration for Uncle Aubrey’s feelings; and tomorrow we’ll finally clench the bargain.”

      Next morning we stayed late in our salon, where we always breakfasted, and did not come down to the public rooms till just before déjeûner, Sir Charles being busy with me over arrears of correspondence. When we did come down the concierge stepped forward with a twisted little feminine note for Amelia. She took it and read it. Her countenance fell. “There, Charles,” she cried, handing it to him, “you’ve let the chance slip. I shall never be happy now! They’ve gone off with the diamonds.”

      Charles seized the note and read it. Then he passed it on to me. It was short, but final:—

      Thursday, 6 a.m.

      DEAR LADY VANDRIFT—Will you kindly excuse our having gone off hurriedly without bidding you good-bye? We have just had a horrid telegram to say that Dick’s favourite sister is dangerously ill of fever in Paris. I wanted to shake hands with you before we left—you have all been so sweet to us—but we go by the morning train, absurdly early, and I wouldn’t for worlds disturb you. Perhaps some day we may meet again—though, buried as we are in a North-country village, it isn’t likely; but in any case, you have secured the grateful recollection of Yours very cordially,

      JESSIE BRABAZON.

      “P.S.—Kindest regards to Sir Charles and those dear Wentworths, and a kiss for yourself, if I may venture to send you one.”

      “She doesn’t even mention where they’ve gone,” Amelia exclaimed, in a very bad humour.

      “The concierge may know,” Isabel suggested, looking over my shoulder.

      We asked at his office.

      Yes, the gentleman’s address was the Rev. Richard Peploe Brabazon, Holme Bush Cottage, Empingham, Northumberland.

      Any address where letters might be sent at once, in Paris?

      For the next ten days, or till further notice, Hôtel des Deux Mondes, Avenue de l’Opéra.

      Amelia’s mind was made up at once.

      “Strike while the iron’s hot,” she cried. “This sudden illness, coming at the end of their honeymoon, and involving ten days’ more stay at an expensive hotel, will probably upset the curate’s budget. He’ll be glad to sell now. You’ll get them for three hundred. It was absurd of Charles to offer so much at first; but offered once, of course we must stick to it.”

      “What do you propose to do?” Charles asked. “Write, or telegraph?”

      “Oh, how silly men are!” Amelia cried. “Is this the sort of business to be arranged by letter, still less by telegram? No. Seymour must start off at once, taking the night train to Paris; and the moment he gets there, he must interview the curate or Mrs. Brabazon. Mrs. Brabazon’s the best. She has none of this stupid, sentimental nonsense about Uncle Aubrey.”

      It is no part of a secretary’s duties to act as a diamond broker. But when Amelia puts her foot down, she puts her foot down—a fact which she is unnecessarily fond of emphasising in that identical proposition. So the self-same evening saw me safe in the train on my way to Paris; and next morning I turned out of my comfortable sleeping-car at the Gare de Strasbourg. My orders were to bring back those diamonds, alive or dead, so to speak, in my pocket to Lucerne; and to offer any needful sum, up to two thousand five hundred pounds, for their immediate purchase.

      When I arrived at the Deux Mondes I found the poor little curate and his wife both greatly agitated. They had sat up all night, they said, with their invalid sister; and the sleeplessness and suspense had certainly told upon them after their long railway journey. They were pale and tired, Mrs. Brabazon, in particular, looking ill and worried—too much like White Heather. I was more than half ashamed of bothering them about the diamonds at such a moment, but it occurred to me that Amelia was probably right—they would now have reached the end of the sum set apart for their Continental trip, and a little ready cash might be far from unwelcome.

      I broached the subject delicately. It was a fad of Lady Vandrift’s, I said. She had set her heart upon those useless trinkets. And she wouldn’t go without them. She must and would have them. But the curate was obdurate. He threw Uncle Aubrey still in my teeth. Three hundred?—no, never! A mother’s present; impossible, dear Jessie! Jessie begged and prayed; she had grown really attached to Lady Vandrift, she said; but the curate wouldn’t hear of it. I went up tentatively to four hundred. He shook his head gloomily. It wasn’t a question of money, he said. It was a question of affection. I saw it was no use trying that tack any longer. I struck out a new line. “These stones,” I said, “I think I ought to inform you, are really diamonds. Sir Charles is certain of it. Now, is it right for a man of your profession and position to be wearing a pair of big gems like those, worth several hundred pounds, as ordinary sleeve-links? A woman?—yes, I grant you. But for a man, is it manly? And you a cricketer!”

      He looked at me and laughed. “Will nothing convince you?” he cried. “They have been examined and tested by half a dozen jewellers, and we know them to be paste. It wouldn’t be right of me to sell them to you under false pretences, however unwilling on my side. I couldn’t do it.”

      “Well, then,” I said, going up a bit in my bids to meet him, “I’ll put it like this. These gems are paste. But Lady Vandrift has an unconquerable and unaccountable desire to possess them. Money doesn’t matter to her. She is a friend of your wife’s. As a personal favour, won’t you sell them to her for a thousand?”

      He shook his head. “It would be wrong,” he said. “I might even add, criminal.”

      “But we take all risk,” I cried.

      He was absolute adamant. “As a clergyman,” he answered, “I feel I cannot do it.”

      “Will you try, Mrs. Brabazon?” I asked.

      The pretty little Scotchwoman leant over and whispered. She coaxed and cajoled him. Her ways were winsome. I couldn’t hear what she said, but he seemed to give way at last. “I should love Lady Vandrift to have them,” she murmured, turning to me. “She is such a dear!” And she took out the links from her husband’s cuffs and handed them across to me.

      “How much?” I asked.

      “Two