Mr. Staffen shook his head.
‘Peddling emeralds,’ said the other soberly.
‘Emeralds? Peddling? What do you mean-trying to sell emeralds?’
Art nodded.
‘Yes, sir. One had a paper bag full of ‘em, all sizes. I bought the lot for twelve thousand dollars, took ’em down to T’ronto and got them valued at something under a million dollars.’
Bertie Claude was listening openmouthed.
‘These fellows had come from Moscow. They’d been peddlin’ jewellery for four years. Some broken-down Prince was acting as agent for the other swells-I didn’t ask questions too closely, because naturally I’m not inquisitive.’
He leant forward and tapped the other’s knee to emphasise his words.
‘The stuff I bought wasn’t a twentieth of their stock. I sent them back to Russia for the rest of the loot, and they’re due here next I week.’
‘Twenty million dollars!’ gasped Bertie Claude. ‘What will it cost you?’
‘A million dollars-two hundred thousand pounds. Come down to my place at Marlow, and I’ll show you the grandest emeralds you ever saw-all that I’ve got left, as a matter of fact. I sold the biggest part to a Pittsburg millionaire for-well, I won’t give you the price, because you’ll think I robbed him! If you like any stone you see-why, I’ll let you buy it, though I don’t want to sell. Naturally, I couldn’t make profit out of a friend.’
Bertie Claude listened, dazed, while his host catalogued his treasures with an ease and a shrewd sense of appraisement. When Mr. Staffen left his friend’s room, his head was in a whirl, though he experienced a bewildered sense of familiarity with a situation which had often figured in his dreams.
As he strode through the hall, he saw a middle-aged man with a flat-topped felt hat, but beyond noticing that he wore a ready-made cravat, that his shoes were square-toed and that he looked rather like a bailiff’s officer, Bertie Claude would have passed him, had not the old-fashioned gentleman stood in his way.
‘Excuse me, sir. You’re Mr. Staffen, are you not?’
‘Yes,’ said Bertie shortly.
‘I wonder if I could have a few moments’ conversation with you on-er-a matter of some moment?’
Bertie waved an impatient hand.
‘I’ve no time to see anybody,’ he said brusquely. ‘If you want an appointment you’d better write for it.’
And he walked out, leaving the sad-looking man to gaze pensively after him.
Mr. Lomer’s little house was an isolated stone bungalow between Marlow and the Quarry Wood, and if he had sought diligently, Mr. Lomer could not have found a property more suitable for his purpose. Bertie Claude, who associated the river with sunshine and flannelled ease, shivered as he came out of the railway station and looked anxiously up at the grey sky. It was raining steadily, and the station cab that was waiting for him dripped from every surface.
‘Pretty beastly month to take a bungalow on the river,’ he grumbled.
Mr. Lomer, who was not quite certain in his mind what was the ideal month for riverside bungalows, agreed.
‘It suits me,’ he said. ‘This house of mine has got the right kind of lonesomeness. I just hate having people looking over me.’
The road from the station to the house followed parallel with the line of the river. Staring out of the streaming windows, Mr. Staffen saw only the steel-grey of water and the damp grasses of the meadows through which the road ran. A quarter of an hour’s drive, however, brought them to a pretty little cottage which stood in a generous garden. A bright fire burnt in the hall fireplace, and there was a general air of cosiness and comfort about the place that revived Bertie’s flagging spirits. A few seconds later they were sitting in a half-timbered diningroom, where tea had been laid.
Atmosphere has an insensible appeal to most people, and Bertie found himself impressed alike by the snugness of the place and the unexpected service, for there was a trim, pretty waiting maid, a sedate, middle-aged butler, and a sober-faced young man in footman’s livery, who had taken off his wet mackintosh and had rubbed his boots dry before he entered the diningroom.
‘No, the house isn’t mine: it is one I always hire when I’m in England,’ said Mr. Lomer, who never told a small and unnecessary lie; because small and unnecessary lies are so easily detected. ‘Jenkins, the butler, is my man, so is the valet; the other people I just hired with the house.’
After tea he showed Bertie up to his bedroom, and, opening a drawer of his bureau, took out a small steel box, fastened with two locks. These he unfastened and lifted out a shallow metal tray covered with a layer of cottonwool.
‘You can have any of these, that take your eye,’ he said. ‘Make me an offer and I’ll tell you what they’re worth.’
He rolled back the cottonwool and revealed six magnificent stones.
‘That one?’ said Mr. Lomer, taking the largest between his finger and thumb. ‘Why that’s worth six thousand dollars-about twelve hundred pounds. And if you offered me that sum for it, I’d think you were a fool, because the only safe way of getting emeralds is to buy ’em fifty per cent. under value. I reckon that cost me about’-he made a mental calculation-’ninety pounds.’
Bertie’s eyes shone. On emeralds he was something of an expert, and that these stones were genuine, he knew.
‘You wouldn’t like to sell it for ninety pounds?’ he asked carelessly.
Art Lomer shook his head.
‘No, sir. I’ve gotta make some profit even from my friends! I’ll let you have it for a hundred.’
Bertie’s hand sought his inside pocket.
‘No, I don’t want paying now. What do you know about emeralds anyway? They might be a clever fake. Take it up to town, show it to an expert-’
‘I’ll give you the cheque now.’
‘Any time will do.’
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 diningroom.
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,