“But what are we going to do?” he asked plaintively. “If this man can make diamonds, the bottom will fall out of the market in no time. We’ll be ruined. Our stock will be worthless. What are we going to do?”
Herman Spreckles surveyed him with a cynical gleam in his black eyes.
“Don’t cry before you’re hurt, Morgan,” he said sarcastically. “Even if you lose your diamond stock, I hardly think you’ll be a candidate for the poor house. Besides the stock has not depreciated yet, and it is our business to see that it does not.”
He glanced up from under his shaggy brows at the expert, who was coming back from the window.
“Well, Pickering, what’s the verdict?”
“It’s a diamond, all right, Mr. Spreckles,” the man said decidedly. “I’ll stake my reputation on that. It has all the fire and color of the best products of the Kimberly mines, and is absolutely flawless. It’s worth easily five hundred dollars a carat. Whether it is a natural or manufactured product I cannot tell. Had I not heard the story Mr. Meyer has just told, I would have sworn that this came from South Africa. As it is, I frankly confess I am puzzled. If this Randolph has discovered a process whereby diamonds like this can be made, he has done something which will cause a world-wide stir, and very probably world-wide ruin to a vast industry.”
Philander Morgan moaned a little and wiped his fat face with a large handkerchief. Marcus Meyer was biting his finger nails nervously. Only the grim Chicago magnate remained apparently unmoved.
“Select some from the other packets,” he said tersely, “and examine them carefully. We must be sure of the facts before we act.”
The expert selected two stones at random from each of the four unopened packages, and retired with them to the window.
Spreckles leaned back in his chair and put the tips of his skinny fingers together.