“The finest emeralds I ever saw,” he declared. “There is one diamond there I wouldn’t dare to value.—Now for the Soul! You reverse the process. Press the left eye and the lobe of the right ear.”
This time, after the whirring ended, the left eye opened, and a slow stream of pink and white pearls fell on to the table.
“The tears of Buddha,” Mr. Johnson exclaimed. “It’s the oldest superstition on the river. ‘When Buddha weeps, the tears are pearls.’”
Again they watched, spellbound. This stream continued even longer than the other one. Then there was a little click and all was over. The eye slipped back. The Image seemed to smile in beneficent fashion. Claire’s fingers tightened upon Gregory’s arm.
“Without expert advice,” Mr. Johnson pronounced, in an awed tone, “I wouldn’t take less than a million for them.”
“They belong to you, every stone,” Gregory whispered to his companion.
She laughed up at him.
“Does it matter?” she murmured.
CHAPTER XV
Once more five men, from a safe distance behind the muslin curtains, watched the approach towards the village inn of the tenant of the Great House. This time, however, conditions were different. The strip of road lay clean and hard in the grip of a four days’ frost. There were little pools of ice near the pavement, the trees, leafless and stark, stood motionless against the clear sky. Although it was early in the afternoon the sun was already sinking beneath a bank of ominous-looking clouds. Mr. Johnson, in thick tweeds and leggings, with a powdering of snow upon his coat, carrying a gun over one shoulder and a cartridge bag suspended from the other, made his appearance coming along the lane from the Hall.