wasn’t there any more. The bright, living thing had gone. Only her eyes stayed on him in a long searching look before she turned them to what the paper held.
She was unwrapping the paper now, letting it drop into the seat of the chair. What emerged was a bracelet—a band about an inch and a half wide, diamond trellis-work between two rows of fine brilliants, and, interrupting the trellis at distances of about three quarters of an inch, light panels of larger stones with a ruby at the centre of each. The rubies were very fine and of the true pigeon’s blood colour. The workmanship was exquisite.
Moira Lane held the bracelet out on the palm of her hand. Her blood might have betrayed her, but her hand was steady.
“What is this?”
Those dancing eyes met hers. He might have been enjoying himself. Perhaps he was.
“Don’t you know?” As there was no answer, he supplied one. “I think you do. But you know, you really ought to have been more careful. Of course there are so many ignorant people that one gets into the habit of expecting everyone to be ignorant. But you can’t really count on it. Anyone in the trade might happen to know something about historic jewels. Even outside the trade there are people like myself to whom the subject is of interest.”
“I don’t know what you mean. In fact I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She really did look blank. He said in an incredulous voice,
“My dear girl, you don’t mean to say you didn’t know what you were taking!”
A frown crept across the blankness.
“It’s a bracelet. The stones are very good. I suppose it’s worth a lot of money. Is there anything else to know about it?”
“Well, well,” said Gregory Porlock—“the True History of the Ruby Bracelet. Instruction for you. Opportunity to show off for me. You may have noticed that I do like showing off.”
“Yes. What have you got to show?”
He laughed good-humouredly.
“Just a little specialized knowledge. That’s another thing you may have noticed about me—I’m fond of odd bits of information—little blind-alley bits and pieces. And you know, sometimes—sometimes they come in useful.”
“Do they?” Her voice was as steady as her hand had been, but the ring had gone out of it.
“Well, you shall judge for yourself. Anything about jewels— that has always fascinated me. Years ago—why it must be quite twenty—I picked up a shabby little book on an Edinburgh bookstall. It was called Famous Jewels and their History, with a Particular Account of the Families of the Nobility and Gentry in whose Possession they are to be Found. Not a well-written book, I am afraid, but containing some interesting facts. Do you know, for instance, that a good many of the French crown jewels were brought over to England during the Revolution and entrusted for safe keeping to the Marquess of Queensberry —the one who was known as Old Q? He is said to have buried them in the cellar of his town house, and all trace of them appears to have been lost. He kept the secret too well, and died with it undisclosed. A couple of London clubs now occupy the site, and somewhere under their foundations there may still be lying the jewels of the Queens of France—” He paused, and added briskly, “Or perhaps not. You never know, do you? Jewels are like riches—sometimes they take to themselves wings. But this is a digression. I mustn’t let myself be carried away. It is Josephine’s ruby bracelets with which we are concerned. You did know, I suppose, that this is one of a pair?”
She glanced down at the trellised diamonds and said,
“How should I know?”
If it was meant for a question, there was no direct answer.
“Then I can continue to show off. My little book mentions these bracelets. Napoleon gave them to Josephine on rather a special occasion. Just turn to the inside of the clasp and you will see the N surmounted by the imperial crown.”
There was no interest in face or manner as she
She was unwrapping the paper now, letting it drop into the seat of the chair. What emerged was a bracelet—a band about an inch and a half wide, diamond trellis-work between two rows of fine brilliants, and, interrupting the trellis at distances of about three quarters of an inch, light panels of larger stones with a ruby at the centre of each. The rubies were very fine and of the true pigeon’s blood colour. The workmanship was exquisite.
Moira Lane held the bracelet out on the palm of her hand. Her blood might have betrayed her, but her hand was steady.
“What is this?”
Those dancing eyes met hers. He might have been enjoying himself. Perhaps he was.
“Don’t you know?” As there was no answer, he supplied one. “I think you do. But you know, you really ought to have been more careful. Of course there are so many ignorant people that one gets into the habit of expecting everyone to be ignorant. But you can’t really count on it. Anyone in the trade might happen to know something about historic jewels. Even outside the trade there are people like myself to whom the subject is of interest.”
“I don’t know what you mean. In fact I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She really did look blank. He said in an incredulous voice,
“My dear girl, you don’t mean to say you didn’t know what you were taking!”
A frown crept across the blankness.
“It’s a bracelet. The stones are very good. I suppose it’s worth a lot of money. Is there anything else to know about it?”
“Well, well,” said Gregory Porlock—“the True History of the Ruby Bracelet. Instruction for you. Opportunity to show off for me. You may have noticed that I do like showing off.”
“Yes. What have you got to show?”
He laughed good-humouredly.
“Just a little specialized knowledge. That’s another thing you may have noticed about me—I’m fond of odd bits of information—little blind-alley bits and pieces. And you know, sometimes—sometimes they come in useful.”
“Do they?” Her voice was as steady as her hand had been, but the ring had gone out of it.
“Well, you shall judge for yourself. Anything about jewels— that has always fascinated me. Years ago—why it must be quite twenty—I picked up a shabby little book on an Edinburgh bookstall. It was called Famous Jewels and their History, with a Particular Account of the Families of the Nobility and Gentry in whose Possession they are to be Found. Not a well-written book, I am afraid, but containing some interesting facts. Do you know, for instance, that a good many of the French crown jewels were brought over to England during the Revolution and entrusted for safe keeping to the Marquess of Queensberry —the one who was known as Old Q? He is said to have buried them in the cellar of his town house, and all trace of them appears to have been lost. He kept the secret too well, and died with it undisclosed. A couple of London clubs now occupy the site, and somewhere under their foundations there may still be lying the jewels of the Queens of France—” He paused, and added briskly, “Or perhaps not. You never know, do you? Jewels are like riches—sometimes they take to themselves wings. But this is a digression. I mustn’t let myself be carried away. It is Josephine’s ruby bracelets with which we are concerned. You did know, I suppose, that this is one of a pair?”
She glanced down at the trellised diamonds and said,
“How should I know?”
If it was meant for a question, there was no direct answer.
“Then I can continue to show off. My little book mentions these bracelets. Napoleon gave them to Josephine on rather a special occasion. Just turn to the inside of the clasp and you will see the N surmounted by the imperial crown.”
There was no interest in face or manner as she
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