It might be a diamond, or at least a crystal ground out of the rocks!
But it was only a clear phial bottle—short, unlabelled, tightly corked, and holding about a teaspoonful of some clear fluid at the bottom.
A disappointment; but a clean bottle was always useful, and, after a brief examination, the barber transferred it to his pocket, but not until he had removed the cork, sniffed, replaced it, and looked round, asking himself whether it had floated there in the last spring tide.
No; it seemed too fresh. The cork was too new and dry. It could only have come from about—been thrown from Gartram’s windows, and—
Wimble got no further in his chain of reasoning. The vacuum which his nature abhorred was giving him strong hints which he was glad to obey; and the breakfast he had that morning was excellent for a jealous man in love.
Afterwards he rose, took off his coat to put on his apron, found the bottle in his pocket, put it carelessly in a drawer to wait till it could be washed, and declared himself ready for business. He had not long to wait, for one of his regular customers came for a shave. “Heard the news, of course?”
“News? no,” said Wimble, stopping short in the stropping of a razor. “What news? What is it?”
“The King of the Castle—dead.”