“In a manner it is, my boy; but then gems are always worth money, and I can always sell these if necessary.” He shuddered, “I hope it will not be necessary. It would be like parting with my life to give up these. I know every single one and each represents days and weeks of bargaining. I could tell you the history of each gem.”
“I fear that would be too long,” said Fuller hastily, for he was growing weary of this enthusiasm; “but are you not afraid of these being stolen?”
“No,” snapped Sorley, putting back the trays and adjusting the panel, so that it looked exactly like a portion of the wall, “no one would ever guess that the jewels were behind that cross. You know, but I don’t think you will rob me, Alan. Ha! ha! ha!”
“I am not fond enough of gems to do so,” said the young man indifferently; “but you said at the vicarage that you feared lest you should be murdered for the sake of your collection.”
“Did I? Did I? I forget.”
“You certainly did,” insisted Fuller, looking at him searchingly; “and you seemed to be very much afraid.”
“Well of course there is six thousand pounds worth of gems there. Some one might——”
“Have you any particular person in your mind?”
Sorley turned gray and gasped. “Why do you say that?” he asked sharply.
Fuller looked at him harder than ever. “I told you that I dined at Miss Grison’s boarding-house,” he explained; “while there I met with a man, who called himself Morad-Bakche!”