“It is a long story.”
“I'm all attention.”
“Then I'll begin at once. If you need a stimulant at any stage of the narrative, just signify your want and I'll ring for it.”
“Is there a bar?”
“No, but there's a cellar.”
“I may need some Apollinaris,” said Quincy, as he settled himself more comfortably in the easy chair; “as my flesh is again strong, I always take my spirit very weak.”
Mary had that sweetest of woman's charm—a low-pitched voice, and as she told the story of the loss of the great Isburn ruby and its recovery Quincy's thoughts were less on the words that he heard than the woman who uttered them. In his mind he was building a castle in which he was the Lord and the story-teller was the Lady.
He was awakened from his dream by Mary's query:
“Didn't I fool him nicely?”
“You certainly did. And so he's going to give you a half-interest in the business. If he keeps his word”—