"Well," said Jonstone, beginning to turn over a bundle of straws, with the object of selecting four which should be flawless, "I don't want to stick you. We have a complete list of the pieces, with their weights and dates. Some of the New York dealers could tell us what the collection would be worth in the open market. Double that sum in the name of sentiment, and I'll go you."
"I must have a free hand to hunt for the stuff in my own way— It's perfection—you never, never made a better one—now, how about the diamonds?"
"I have the weights. And you know the Jonstones were always particular about water."
"That's why they are all dead but you. Then you'll come?"
Bob Jonstone nodded.
"You'll have to lend me a suit of clothes—but, look here, Mel: suppose the silver and stuff has been lifted—doesn't exist any more? Wouldn't I, in selling it to you, be guilty of sharp practice?"
"Our great-great-grandfather, the Signer, doesn't exist any more, Bob. That silver is somewhere—in some form or other. I pay for it, and it's mine. Does it matter if I never see it or handle it? I shall always be able to allude to it—isn't that enough? As for you, you'll be able to pay all your mortgages, to fix the front door so's it won't have to be kept shut with a keg of nails, and to spend what is necessary on your fields."
"Of course," said Jonstone, who had finished his julep. "It afflicts me to part with what has been in the family so long."