Jimmie Dale was leaning over the table poking gingerly with the tip of his forefinger at the centre stone in the setting, revolving it gently to and fro in the light—a very large stone, whose weight would hardly be less than fifteen carats. Jimmie Dale lowered his head for a closer examination—and to hide a curious, mocking little gleam that crept into his dark eyes.
“Yes, I should say you're right, Markel,” he agreed judicially. “He ought to know better than to touch this. It—it would be too hard to dispose of.”
“I'm not worrying,” declared Markel importantly.
“No,” said Jimmie Dale. “Two hundred and ten thousand, you said. Any special—er—significance to the occasion, if the question's not impertinent? Birthday, wedding anniversary—or something like that?”
“No, nothing like that!” Markel grinned, winked secretively, and rubbed his hands together. “I'm feeling good, that's all—I'm going to make the killing of my life to-morrow.”
“Oh!” said Jimmie Dale.
Markel turned to Carruthers. “I'll let you in on that, too, Carruthers, in a day or two, if you'll send a reporter around—financial man, you know. It'll be worth your while. And now, how about this? What do you say to a little article and the photos next Sunday?”
There was a slight hint of rising colour in Carruthers' face.
“If you'll send them to the society editor, I've no doubt he'll be able to use them,” he said brusquely.
“Right!” said Markel, and coughed, and patted Carruthers' shoulder patronisingly again. “I'll just do that little thing.” He picked up the necklace, dangled it till it flashed and flashed again under the light, then restored it very ostentatiously to its case, and the case to his pocket. “Thanks awfully, Carruthers,” he said, as he rose from his chair. “See you again, Dale. Good-night!”