“They are quite safe. See, I button my coat when I am outside. No one could possibly take them from me.”
Mr. Bechcombe coughed.
“Oh, James, nothing will ever alter you! Don't you know that there have been as many jewels stolen in the past year in London as in twenty years previously? People say there is a regular gang at work—they call it the Yellow Gang, and the head of it goes by the name of the Yellow Dog. If it had been known you were carrying the emeralds in that careless fashion they would never have got here. However, all's well that ends well. You had better leave them in my safe.”
The rector brought an ancient leather case out of his pocket.
“Here it is.”
Mr. Bechcombe held his hand out for the case.
“So this is the Collyer cross! I haven't seen it for years.” He was opening the case as he spoke. Inside the cross lay on its satin bed, gleaming with baleful, green fire. As Mr. Bechcombe looked at it his expression changed. “Where have you kept the cross, James?”
The rector blinked.
“In the secret drawer in my writing-table. Why do you ask?”
Mr. Bechcombe groaned.