Then Sammy sat down, eyeing the bag idly, and returned to his thoughts. Neither Sara nor Matthew had made the slightest movement toward a divorce. Now it was Sammy’s pet idea that Sara should not begin proceedings. He wanted her to pose for some time as the injured victim. He wanted Towns to kill himself beyond redemption by not only deserting Sara but brazenly seeking legal separation. Now that neither made a move Sammy got uneasy. What was the big idea? Was Sara going to hold on to him because she wanted him back or just to thwart the other woman? Did Matthew want his freedom, or was he playing around and ready to return to Sara later? Sammy was stumped. He had spoken to Matthew before the lady, and yet Matthew had neither answered nor taken any steps. Didn’t the woman want Matthew divorced?
Then Sammy looked at the bag again. Queer woman—queer bag. Didn’t look or feel like a toilet case. No—contents weren’t soft enough for clothing. Well—he must get rid of this junk and clean up his office and Sara’s and get ready for her tomorrow. Then Sammy looked at that bag again. What was this “Princess,” anyhow? What was her game? Here was a chance to find out. He tried to open the bag. It was securely locked. The lock was very curious and was probably a combination and not a key lock, in spite of certain holes. Sammy again felt carefully of the contents—shook the bag, turned it around and upside down. Then suddenly he shut and locked the door and drew the curtain and took out his knife. He attempted to slit the leather. It was very heavy, and once cut, after considerable difficulty, it revealed a fine steel mesh below. Sammy was aroused and beset with curiosity. He got a wire ripper and soon had a hole about two inches long. Through this he drew a small Russian leather box fastened with a gold or gilded clasp. He opened this and found a dozen or more large transparent unset stones that looked like diamonds.
Sammy began to perspire. Then he wiped the sweat from his brow and sat down to think. He examined his own diamond ring. These stones certainly looked genuine. They scratched the window glass. But—it couldn’t be! If these were diamonds they’d be worth—Hell! Sammy took out one, closed the box, and inserted it in the bag. He closed the aperture carefully and started with it to the safe. No, suppose Sara asked for it! No, he turned it around and set it carelessly and in full sight in the corner. Then he unlocked the office door and phoned Corruthers.
“Say,” he said when Corruthers appeared, “take this to Ben and see if it’s worth anything.”
Corruthers ran his fingers through his red hair.
“Phony,” he declared. “Who stuck you with it?”
“Shut up,” said Sammy, “and ask Ben and don’t try no monkey business neither.”
Corruthers was back in a half hour.
“Say,” he began excitedly. “Where’d you get this—”
Sammy interrupted. “Send them clothes and books to Towns.”
“Sure—but—”
“What’s the stone worth?”
“Five thousand dollars.”
Sammy bit his cigar in two but managed to keep from swallowing the stub and dropping the end—
“Oh—er—that all?”
“Well—you might get more if you could prove ownership. He says it’s an unusual stone. How—”
“ ’Tain’t mine,” said Sammy. “Probably stolen. A bird wanted to sell it, but I don’t know—” and he shooed Corruthers out.
Five thousand! And one of a dozen! And that bag. Again Sammy locked up carefully, drew the shades, and turned on the electric lights. Then he brought the bag to the desk and with a knife and improvised tools, tore it entirely open. There were a half-dozen boxes, several paper bundles, and two or three chamois bags. He spread the contents out on the desk and literally gasped. Such jewels he had never seen. Not only smaller uncut diamonds in profusion, but several large stones in intricate settings, beautiful emeralds, two or three bags of lovely matched pearls, and above all, a great crimson ruby that looked like a huge drop of blood.
Sammy gasped, sat down, stood up, whistled, and whirled about; and whirling, faced, sitting quietly in his own chair, a person who seemed at first an utter stranger. Then Sammy recognized him as the Indian with whom he had had several conferences during the campaign and whom he had met together with the young radical Negro down at the radical Box-Makers’ Union.
Sammy suddenly grew furious.
“How the hell—” he began; but the Indian interrupted suavely.
“Through the window there,” he said. “You pulled the shade down, but you didn’t lock the window. I have been watching there several days.”
“Well, by God,” and Sammy half turned toward the desk; but the Indian still spoke very quietly.
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” he said.
Sammy didn’t. On the other hand he sat down in another chair and faced the Indian.
“Well, what about it?” he said.
“These jewels,” said the Indian, “are, as I presume you suspect, the property of her Royal Highness, the Princess of Bwodpur. In fact they are part of the crown jewels which always accompany the heir to the throne wherever he or she goes. Her Royal Highness is unfortunately very careless. She had the jewels with her when she started to interview Mr. Towns that night, and in the turmoil of the evening, evidently forgot them. Yesterday she sent me a note asking that I find them. I went to the residence of Mrs. Towns and found it locked on account of her absence, but I secured entrance.”
“That kind of thing sometimes lands people in jail,” said Sammy dryly.
“Yes,” said the Indian, “and the theft of jewels like these might land one further in
