Macpherson laid Great-Uncle Joseph on the table, and slit him open with a practised hand.
"Gude be gracious to us!" cried Maggie, peering over his shoulder. "What'll that be?"
Wimsey inserted a delicate finger and thumb into the cavities of Uncle Joseph. "One—two—three——" The stones glittered like fire as he laid them on the table. "Seven—eight—nine. That seems to be all. Try a little farther down, Mac."
Speechless with astonishment, Mr. Macpherson dissected his legacy.
"Ten—eleven," said Wimsey. "I'm afraid the sea-gulls have got number twelve. I'm sorry, Mac."
"But how did they get there?" demanded Robert foolishly.
"Simple as shelling peas. Great-Uncle Joseph makes his will, swallows his diamonds——"
"He must ha' been a grand man for a pill," said Maggie, with respect.
"—and jumps out of the window. It was as clear as crystal to anybody who read the will. He told you, Mac, that the stomach was given you to study."
Robert Ferguson gave a deep groan.