“You mean,” asked Palermo, “you mean — was I sure that he was Horace Chatham?”
“No, no,” came Burke’s hasty reply. “Of course it was Horace Chatham. His actions have been thoroughly traced by many witnesses who saw him. I just thought he might have seemed well, different, that evening.”
“He was nervous,” said Doctor Palermo thoughtfully. “Outside of that, he was his usual self.”
Burke was feeling the effects of his drink. He seemed to have a new boldness that led him to press the issue. His cautiousness was in conflict with his usual good judgment.
“Did Chatham”—Burke’s voice was slightly agitated—”did Chatham mention anything about a — a—purple sapphire?”
“A purple sapphire?” The doctor’s voice registered slight surprise. “Why, no! I thought all sapphires were purple.”
“They’re a deep blue,” said Burke. He swayed slightly in his chair. “This one was — a deeper blue. It was — purple. It belonged to a man named Harriman— Lloyd Harriman — friend of Chatham’s.
“Harriman died in Florida — suicide. The purple sapphire was bad luck. Perhaps — perhaps Chatham got that sapphire. Bad luck, you know. I wondered—”
The evil grin spread slowly over Doctor Palermo’s face. Clyde Burke saw it, as one might see a phantom in a dream. He seemed to be living through a nightmare, now. He tried to speak again, but words refused to reach his lips.
“The purple sapphire.” Doctor Palermo’s words seemed to come slowly, as from a distance. “Was it valuable?”