An affectionate remonstrance with his folly was on Mr. Francis's lips, when the servants entered with coffee. Behind the footman, who carried it, walked a man with liqueurs, whom Harry could not remember having seen before. He looked at him a moment, wondering who he was, when he recollected that his uncle had spoken to him about his own man, whom he proposed should wait on him at Vail. Last came Templeton, carrying the leather case of the Luck.
Harry took coffee and liqueur, and had another look at his uncle's valet. The man wore the immovable mask of the well-trained servant; he was no more than a machine for handing things.
"Yes, take the cup, Templeton," said Harry. "Have you the key of it?"
"No, my lord; it is on Mr. Francis's bunch."
"Would you give me the key, Uncle Francis? I will lock it myself, and keep the key."
Mr. Francis did not at once answer, but continued sipping his coffee, and Harry, thinking he had not heard, repeated his request. On the repetition, Mr. Francis instantly took the key off his bunch.
"By all means, dear boy," he said. "It is much better so, that you should have it."
Templeton packed the jewel in its case, and Harry turned the key on it.
"Lock it up yourself, Templeton," he said, "in one of the chests. I must have a new case made for it, I think. This is very old, and it would be much too easily carried away—eh, Uncle Francis?" and he swung the locked case lightly in his hand.
"It is the original case, Harry," he said. "I should be sorry to change it."