"Burke," I cried heatedly, "do you think you can make me believe that a man of Alfred Fluette's calibre would purchase the Paternoster ruby from you, knowing that it was not yours to sell? Bah!" I was filled with disgust.
"Ah, Swift, Swift," the rogue said, complacently wagging his head at me, "there are some things of which even you are ignorant.
"Here is one of them—listen: the Paternoster ruby was no more Felix Page's than it is yours or mine. It is the property of the king of Burma; it was stolen from him years ago, and the Burmese nobleman who is at present in this country with his retinue—"
"Tshen-byo-yen," I said quietly, and had the satisfaction of beholding Mr. Burke favor me with a startled glance.
"Yes," he pursued, with considerably less assurance, "that's his name."
"And one of the 'retinue,' as you are pleased to call his gang of thugs, is that hideous, misshapen monster that shrieks like a ghoul. I suppose that he too was hunting for the ruby Friday night—after having stolen it the night before." My sarcasm failed to touch Burke. He shuddered, saying:
"The dwarf? He's a mute—Tshen's slave. Tongue 's been torn out. And—truly—believe me; you may easily verify what I say—Tshen is the properly accredited representative of the king of Burma, invested with full power and authority to dispose of the stone. Does the fact that it was stolen from his royal master—that it has for some years been out of the king's possession—in any way lessen or invalidate his right to it? Surely you would not dispute that?"
"I don't propose debating the matter with you." And then I pointed out: "If his claim is good, there are the courts."
Burke's shoulders twitched in a tiny shrug.
"Who can fathom the Oriental mind?" said he, oracularly.