She flushed with delight, and consented to wait until I had the fire going properly. It was a most successful fire. We dragged the library table up close; I jumped Genevieve to a seat upon it, and then seated myself beside her. She placed a hand upon my shoulder, and our heads were again very close together.
"Now, then!" I shook the papers open.
The more imposing one—the agreement—I placed beneath; its dry legal phraseology was not at all inviting. The other sheets were, however. They too were written all over in Felix Page's hand, but bore the blunt, direct phrases of a man used to expressing himself without any rhetorical embellishment or nonsense.
And this is what we read:
This explanation is written to clear up any misunderstanding or doubt, that may arise after my death, over the stone called the Paternoster Ruby.
In June, 1884, I learned that Alfred Fluette was trying to buy it from the Paternostros. I at once determined that he should not have the stone if money could prevent it. So I too became a bidder.
The first figure set by the dealers was almost prohibitive, but as Fluette seemed willing to meet it, I was ready to go him one better. But the wily Italians hedged. They set us to bidding against each other, and as the price rose my resolution to get the stone grew more set.
While the bids mounted, I was given ample satisfaction for the weight of whatever financial obligations I was incurring by Fluette's increasing worry and chagrin. He was like a pup that does n't know whether the bone is going into the soup-kettle or the garbage-can. I swore to have that bit of red glass if it took every cent that I could rake and scrape together—and I had a few of them.
Finally Fluette drew out, cursing me. I brought the Italians to a showdown.
Still they hesitated. I became suspicious.