“It has been gone long months,” said Whimple, “when suddenly, this day or two ago, my sister (ah! gentlemen,” he interpolated with great emotion—“she hath not the wit to distinguish between right and wrong!) amazes me with the confession that, from early in her possession of the skull, she has known a great crimson stone—which later she learned to identify by its fanciful title—to be fixed and buried in one of its eyesockets, and that this stone had been at one time cemented smoothly over its outer surface and something resembling the picture of an eye enamelled thereon. Gentlemen, all confounded as I was, I rushed to my master, and told him what I had heard.”
Luvaine was jerking in his chair and gnawing his knuckles like a madman.
“Whither has it been taken?” he cried in a strangled voice. “That is the one moral of this accursed concatenation of accident and brutality. What has she done with it—where does she live, this woman? She must be come at—my God! she must be held responsible and whipped into disgorging.”
Whimple had shrunk back; but for all his instinctive action his face had taken a dark flush.
“She must be assured from violence, whatever has happened,” he said in a pretty strong voice, “or I will not move a finger to help you to her.”
Tuke put in a decided word. This first sign of courage in his man-servant surprised and pleased him.
“I guarantee her gentle treatment, Dennis,” he said.
The man turned gratefully to his master.
“I know you would, sir. It’s to you I reveal the truth, and God grant that she won’t curse me for betraying her. Were I to go alone, and endeavour to recover the relic——”
Luvaine sprang to his feet, interrupting him.