It was full summer, and the fruit trees stood white with blossoms, in the garden of Villa Ballarat.
A party of five people sat in the cool shade of the museum, while the warm summer air blew in at the open door.
"The hand of justice reached him sooner than we had expected," said I, when Monk had read these lines aloud.
"Peace be with his bones!" said old Frick, with unction. "Old Davis was a big scoundrel; but upon my soul, I think the son was worse."
"But what are you going to do now?" said Clara. "Cannot the matter be taken up again? I think it would be a great shame if the world did not get to know of all that has taken place; especially those who at the time threw stones at Sigrid."
"No one was found guilty," said Monk; "and I do not believe we could get the matter taken up again, except—" Here Monk glanced at his wife.
"All the people whose opinion I value," answered Mrs. Monk, softly, "know my story as well as I know it myself, and I shudder at the thought of appearing again in court."
"I have an idea," I exclaimed, "which solves the difficulty. I will write a novel about old Frick's diamond! The whole town will read it, of course. And then everybody will know about the affair."
*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BLACK TORTOISE ***