As he did so, there came a sudden cry from the background, a man's voice shrill and warning.
"Leave the thing alone! It's a bomb! I tell you, it's a bomb!"
"What?" The crowd scattered backwards as though a thunderbolt had fallen in its midst, and a woman shrieked in panic.
A man—wild, unkempt, ragged—tore like a maniac over the polished floor, making for the group at the table, waving one skinny arm.
"Noel! You damn' fool! Leave the thing alone!"
Noel whizzed round with the key in his hand. "Hullo,—Nick!" he said.
"Leave it alone! Leave it alone!" The voice dropped to a hoarse croak. The man was close to the table now, and in amazement Olga recognized the face of the old moonstone-seller. But it was convulsed with a terror such as she had never seen on the face of any man.
The bony hand darted out towards the casket, and her heart stood still.
She knew that hand—wiry, energetic, capable.
"Nick!" she whispered. "Nick!"
He brushed her aside, and, again in that dry, breathless croak, "There isn't—a moment—to lose!" he said.