Art wrapped up the stone carefully, put it in a small box and handed it to his companion.
“That’s the only one I’m going to sell,” he explained as he led the way back to the dining-room.
Bertie went immediately to the small secretaire, wrote the cheque and, tearing it out, handed it to Mr. Lomer. Art looked at the paper and frowned.
“Why, what do I do with this?” he asked. “I’ve got no bank account here. All my money’s in the Associated Express Company.”
“I’ll make it ‘pay bearer,’ ” said Bertie obligingly.
Still Mr. Lomer was dubious.
“Just write a note telling the President, or whoever he is, to cash that little bit of paper. I hate banks anyway.”
The obliging Bertie Claude scribbled the necessary note. When this was done, Bertie came to business, for he was a business man. “Can I come in on this jewel deal?”
Art Lomer shook his head reluctantly. “Sorry, Mr. Staffen, but that’s almost impossible. I’ll be quite frank with you, because I believe in straightforward dealing. When you ask to come in on that transaction, you’re just asking me for money!”
Bertie made a faint noise of protest.
“Well, that’s a mean way of putting it, but it comes to the same thing. I’ve taken all the risk, I’ve organised the operation—and it’s cost money to get that guy out of Russia: aeroplanes and special trains and everything. I just hate to refuse you, because I like you, Mr. Staffen. Maybe if there’s any little piece to which you might take a fancy, I’ll let you have it at a reasonable price.”
Bertie thought for a moment, his busy mind at work.
“What has the deal cost you up to now?” he asked.
Again Mr. Lomer shook his head. “It doesn’t matter what it’s cost me—if you offered me four times the amount of money I’ve spent—and that would be a considerable sum—I couldn’t let you in on this deal. I might go so far as giving you a small interest, but I wouldn’t take money for that.”
“We’ll talk about it later,” said Bertie, who never lost hope.
The rain had ceased, and the setting sun flooded the river with pale gold, and Bertie was walking in the garden with his host, when from somewhere above them came the faint hum of an aeroplane engine. Presently he saw the machine circling and disappearing behind the black crown of Quarry Wood. He heard an exclamation from the man at his side and, turning, saw Art’s face puckered in a grimace of annoyance and doubt.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“I’m wondering,” said Art slowly. “They told me next week … why, no, I’m foolish.”
It was dark. The butler had turned on the lights and drawn the blinds when they went indoors again, and it was not difficult for Bertie to realise that something had happened which was very disturbing to his host. He was taciturn, and for the next half-hour scarcely spoke, sitting in front of the fire gazing into the leaping flames and starting at every sound.
Dinner, a simple meal, was served early, and whilst the servants were clearing away, the two men strolled into the tiny drawing-room.
“What’s the trouble, Lomer?”
“Nothing,” said the other with a start, “only—”
At that moment they heard the tinkle of a bell, and Art listened tensely. He heard the parley of voices in the hall, and then the footman came.
“There’s two men and a lady to see you, sir,” he said.
Bertie saw the other bite his lip.
“Show them in,” said Art curtly, and a second later a tall man, wearing the leather coat and helmet of an airman, walked into the room.
“Marsham! What in hell—!”
The girl who followed instantly claimed Bertie Claude’s attention. She was slim and dark, and her face was beautiful, despite the pallor of her cheeks and the tired look in her eyes. The second of the men visitors was hardly as prepossessing: a squat, foreign-looking individual with a short-clipped beard, he was wrapped to his neck in an old fur overcoat, and his wild-looking head was bare.
Art closed the door.
“What’s the great idea?” he asked.
“There’s been trouble,” said the tall man sulkily. “The Prince has had another offer. He has sent some of the stuff, but he won’t part with the pearls or the diamonds until you pay him half of the money you promised. This is Princess Pauline Dimitroff, the Prince’s daughter,” he explained.
Art shot an angry look at the girl.
“Say, see here, young lady,” he said, “I suppose you speak English?”
She nodded.
“This isn’t the way we do business in our country. Your father promised—”
“My father has been very precipitate,” she said, with the slightest of foreign accent, which was delightful to Bertie’s ear. “He has taken much risk. Indeed, I am not sure that he has been very honest in the matter. It is very simple for you to pay. If he has your money tonight—”
“Tonight?” boomed Art. “How can I get the money for him tonight?”
“He is in Holland,” said the girl. “We have the aeroplane waiting.”
“But how can I get the money tonight?” repeated the Canadian angrily. “Do you think I carry a hundred thousand pounds in my pistol pocket?”
Again she shrugged, and, turning to the unkempt little man, said something to him in a language which was unintelligible to Mr. Staffen. He replied in his hoarse voice, and she nodded.
“Pieter says my father will take your cheque. He only wishes to be sure that there is no—” She paused, at a loss for an English word.
“Did I ever double-cross your father?” asked Art savagely. “I can’t give you either the money or the cheque. You can call off the deal—I’m through!”
By this time the aviator had unrolled the package he carried under his arm, placed it on the table, and Bertie Claude grew breathless at the sight of the glittering display that met his eyes. There were diamonds, set and unset; quaint and ancient pieces of jewellery that must have formed the heirlooms of old families; but their historical value did not
