As a matter of fact, they were standing outside a miraculously convenient hostel at that moment—Louie Fallon had always believed in bringing the mellowing influence of alcohol to bear as soon as he had scraped his acquaintance, and he staged his encounters with that idea in view.
With practised dexterity he steered the Saint towards the door of the saloon bar, cutting short the protest which Simon Templar had no intention whatsoever of making. In hardly any more time than it takes to record, he had got the Saint inside the bar, parked him at a table, invited him to name his poison, procured a double ration of the said poison from the barmaid, and settled himself in the adjoining chair to improve the shining hour. To the discerning critic it might seem that he rushed at the process rather like an unleashed investor plunging after an absconding company promoter; but Louie Fallen's conception of improving shining hours had never included any unnecessary waste of time, and he had learnt by experience that the willingness of the species Mug to listen is usually limited only by the ability of the flatcatcher to talk.
'Yes,' said Mr. Fallon, reverting to his subject. 'I am the unluckiest man you are ever likely to meet. Did you see that diamond I dropped just now?'
'Well,' admitted the Saint truthfully, 'I couldn't help seeing it.'
Mr. Fallon nodded. He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket, brought out the jewel again, and laid it on the table.
'I made that myself,' he said.
Simon eyed the stone and Mr. Fallon with the puzzled expression which was expected of him.
'What do you mean—you made it?'
'I made it myself,' said Mr. Fallon. 'It's what you would call synthetic. It took about half an hour, and it cost me exactly threepence. But there isn't a diamond merchant in London who could prove that it wasn't dug up out of the ground in South Africa. Take it to anyone you like, and see if he does swear that it's a perfectly genuine stone.'
'You mean it's a fake?' said the Saint.
'Fake my eye!' said Mr. Fallon, with emphatic if inelegant expressiveness. 'It's a perfectly genuine diamond, the same as any other stone you'll ever seen. The only difference is that I made it. You know how diamonds are made?'
The Saint had as good an idea of how diamonds are made as Louie Fallon was ever likely to have; but it seemed as if Louie liked talking, and in such circumstances as that Simon Templar was the last man on earth to interfere with anyone's enjoyment. He shook his head blankly.
'I thought they sort of grew,' he said vaguely.
'I don't know that I should put it exactly like that,' said Louie. 'I'll tell you how diamonds happen. Diamonds are just carbon—like coal, or soot, or—or——'•
'Paper?' suggested the Saint helpfully.
Louie frowned.
'They're carbon,' he said, 'which is crystallised under pressure. When the earth was all sort of hot, like you read about in your history books—before it sort of cooled down and people started to live in it and things grew on it—there was a lot of carbon. Being hot, it burnt things, and when you burn things you usually get carbon. Well, after a time, when the earth started to cool down, it sort of shrunk, like—like——'
'A shirt when it goes to the wash?' said the Saint.
'Anyway, it shrunk,' said Louie, yielding the point and passing on. 'And what happened then?'
'It
