"This one, at least, is real," he said, after a moment. "And I have no doubt the others are," he added, turning them over with his finger.
Grady, still incredulous, picked up one of the brilliants, went to the window, and drew it down the pane. It left a deep scratch behind it.
"Yes," he admitted reluctantly, "I guess they're diamonds, all right," and he sat down again.
"And now, gentlemen," continued Godfrey, who had watched Grady's byplay with a tolerant smile, "I am ready to turn these diamonds over to you. I should like you to count them, and give me a receipt for them."
"And then, of course, you will write the story," sneered Grady, "and give yourself all the credit."
"Well," asked Godfrey, looking at him, "do you think you deserve any?" And Grady could only crimson and keep silent. "As for the story, it is already written. It will be on the streets in ten minutes—and it will create a sensation. Please count the diamonds. You will find two hundred and ten of them."
"That is the exact number stolen from the Grand Duke," remarked M.
Pigot, and fell to counting. The number was two hundred and ten.
"Mr. Shearrow has the receipt," Godfrey added, and Shearrow took a paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and read the contents.
It proved to be not only a receipt, but a full statement of the facts of the case, without omitting the details of the robbery and the credit due the Record for the recovery of the diamonds. Grady's face grew redder and redder as the reading proceeded.
"I won't sign no such testimonial as that," he blustered. "Not on your life I won't!"