"Yes, many times. It is a remarkably excellent imitation—silicate of alumina; the weight, color, and hardness, the measurements—table, girdle, and culasse—all correspond exactly with the original. It lacks only in density, and perhaps a trifle in—but no; it would require an expert test to determine that it was not a true ruby."
"Then," I eagerly pursued, "even an expert might be imposed upon by the replica?"
"Well," he slowly admitted, "perhaps—yes. But not for long; men who deal in precious stones after a time develop a sort of sixth sense that protects them against imposition. It is too subtle to define; but any diamond merchant will tell you that the most perfect imitation will raise a doubt in his mind as to its genuineness; a true stone, never."
When I considered his special knowledge of the subject in general, and of the Paternoster ruby in particular, I was astounded at his obtuseness. Later, I was no less astounded at my own.
"Is it possible, Mr. Fluette," I went on, with an enthusiasm which he did not in the least share, "that it never occurred to you what Burke's game might be? With the connivance of these Burmese, he was deliberately attempting to swindle you; he meant to practise the old familiar game of 'switching' the false for the real stone. The Burmese want the stone, not the money without the stone; but for a generous share in the proceeds, they were willing to lend themselves to Burke's fraud. There 's the Oriental for you."
The man stared at me dully. I continued, warming with the subject.
"And Felix Page—he was craftier than even you give him credit for. Mr. Fluette, there 's nothing extraordinary in Maillot's story of his Tuesday night adventure—except our stupidity in comprehending its real significance.
"Remember Page's strict injunction to Maillot not to let the jewel-case out of his possession until he and Miss Belle were married; think of the alacrity with which he acceded to Maillot's request; think of his sly chuckles and furtive manner, of his attitude during the whole of that remarkable conference, and tell me what it means if he, too, didn't intend palming off the false stone on you? Maillot and Miss Belle once married, then the young man—in complete innocence, to be sure—would have handed you, not the ruby, but—the replica."
Slowly the dull look died out in Alfred Fluette's eyes, and in spite of his distress, his face flushed darkly with anger.
"The hound!" he muttered through his clenched teeth. "What a dupe I 've been. But," he added, with kindling interest, "where is the ruby, then?"