Carruthers laughed—and then glanced ludicrously at Jimmie Dale, as the door, ajar, was pushed open, and a man entered.
“Speaking of angels,” murmured Jimmie Dale—and sat up in his chair. “Hello, Markel!” he observed casually, “You've met Carruthers, of the NEWS-ARGUS, haven't you?”
Markel was fat and important; he had beady black eyes, fastidiously trimmed whiskers—and a pronounced smirk.
Markel blew his nose vigorously, coughed asthmatically, and held out his hand.
“Of course, certainly,” said he effusively. “I've met Carruthers several times—used his sheet more than once to advertise a new bond flotation.”
The dominant note in Markel's voice was an ingratiating and unpleasant whine, and Carruthers nodded, not very cordially—and shook hands.
Markel went back to the door, closed it carefully, and returned to the table.
“Fact is,” he smiled confidentially, “I saw you two come in here a few minutes ago, and I've got something that I thought Carruthers might be glad to have for his society column—say, in the Sunday edition.”
He dove into the inside pocket of his coat, produced a large morocco leather jeweller's case, and, holding it out over the table between Carruthers and Jimmie Dale, suddenly snapped the cover open—and then, with a complacent little chuckle that terminated in another fit of coughing, spilled the contents on the table under the electric reading lamp.
Like a thing of living, pulsing fire it rolled before their eyes—a magnificent diamond necklace, of wondrous beauty, gleaming and scintillating as the light rays shot back from a thousand facets.