"What!"
I insisted. And though Billings protested and argued and even called me names, we did as I said.
For, by Jove, you know it was perfectly clear that if they had been safe so long under the little covers, the jewels couldn't find any better place. Singular thing Billings couldn't see it. Besides, the pajamas had to have fastenings, you know.
I held one of the two rubies under the light, and, by Jove, I almost dropped it—did drop my glass. Seeing a red-hot poker-point in your fingers would give you the same turn.
"Rippers, Billings! Simply rippers!" I exclaimed.
I held the other ruby beside its fellow. Then I waited, listening, and I heard Billings' hand strike down on the back of a chair.
"I guess I'll be going, old chap," he said gruffly. "Think I'd better, after all." He cleared his throat. "Sure you can't sell me one, Dicky?" Dashed if his voice didn't tremble.
"Quite sure, dear boy," I murmured, without turning around. "Not mine, you know—these two."
Billings exploded then. It seemed an opportunity to relieve himself. "Not yours! Why, you dod-gasted idiot, you nincompoop, you cuckoo, you chicken head! What notion have you got in that fool's noddle now? If those rubies are not yours, whose do you think they are?"
I whirled about quickly. "Yours," I said, and laid them in his hand.