“I’ve come about the diamond, Mr Farnborough; I suppose you can show title to it?”
“No, I can’t show a title,” replied Frank. “It came into my possession in a very astounding way, a day or two since, and I was going to tell the manager all about it to-day and ‘declare’ the stone.”
Frank then proceeded to tell the detective shortly the whole story, and finally, the scene with Staarbrucker that morning.
Flecknoe listened patiently enough, and at the end said quietly: “I am afraid, Mr Farnborough, you have been a little rash. I shall have to ask you to come down to the office with me and explain further. Have you the stone?”
“Yes, here’s the stone,” replied Frank, producing the diamond from a little bag from under his pillow, and exhibiting it on his palm. “I won’t hand it over to you at this moment, but I’ll willingly do so at the office in presence of third parties. Just let me finish shaving, and I’ll come along.”
“Very well,” said Mr Flecknoe, rather grimly, taking a chair. “I’ll wait.”
That evening, some astounding rumours concerning a De Beers official were afloat in Kimberley. Farnborough’s absence from his usual place at the “Central” table d’hôte was noticed significantly, and next morning the whole town was made aware, by the daily paper, of some startling occurrences. Two days later it became known that Frank Farnborough had been sent for trial on a charge of I.D.B.; that his friend Staarbrucker had, with manifest reluctance, given important and telling evidence against him; that bail had been, for the present, refused, and that the unfortunate young man, but twenty-four hours since a universal Kimberley favourite, well known at cricket, football, and other diversions, now lay in prison in imminent peril of some years’ penal servitude at Capetown Breakwater. The town shook its head, said to itself, “Another good man gone wrong,” instanced, conversationally over the bars of the “Transvaal,” “Central,” and other resorts, cases of the many promising young men who had gone under, victims of the poisonous fascination of the diamond, and went about its business.
But there was a certain small leaven of real friends, who refused utterly to believe in Frank’s guilt. These busied themselves unweariedly in organising his defence, cabling to friends in England, collecting evidence, and doing all in their power to bring their favourite through one of the heaviest ordeals that a man may be confronted with.
The morning of the trial came at last. The season was now South African mid-winter; there was a clear blue sky over Kimberley, and the air was crisp, keen, and sparkling under the brilliant sunlight. The two judges and resident magistrate came into court, alert and sharp-set, and proceedings began. Frank was brought in for trial, looking white and harassed, yet determined.
As he came into court, and faced the crowded gathering of advocates, solicitors, witnesses, and spectators—for this was a cause célèbre in Kimberley—he was encouraged to see, here and there, the cheering nod and smile, and even the subdued wave of the hand, of many sympathising friends, black though the case looked against him. And he was fired, too, by the flame of indignation as he saw before him the big, florid face—now a trifle more florid even than usual from suppressed excitement—and the shining, upturned eyeglasses of his arch-enemy and lying betrayer, Otto Staarbrucker. Thank God! Nina was not in the assembly; she, at least, had no part or lot in this shameful scene. And yet, after what had passed, could Nina be trusted? Nina, with all her friendliness, her even tenderer feelings, was but the sister of Otto Staarbrucker. Her conduct ever since Frank’s committal had been enigmatical; her brother, it was to be supposed, had guarded her safely, and, although she had been subpoenaed upon Frank’s behalf, she had vouchsafed no evidence, nor given a sign of interest in her former friend’s fate.