Frontin, who still held the star, pushed it across the table. He, too, got a pipe from the mantel and filled it. Vanderberg remained silent, puffing lustily.
Crawford looked again at the star and perceived a ring at one of the points, by which it might be fastened on a thong. The thing had no great intrinsic value, since few of the emeralds were fine stones, but it held that peculiar beauty which comes of primitive artistry and crude technique guided by instinctively flawless taste.
“Star of Dreams,” said Frontin. “It was Saint-Castin called it that name.”
“A good name for it,” and Crawford nodded. “I think I shall keep it. I like the thing.”
Vanderberg, who at most times was somewhat afraid of his saturnine lieutenant, gaped at this remark. Crawford looked up and met the suddenly piercing gaze of Frontin.
“You jest?” said the latter.
“Not at all.” Crawford looked again at the star in his hand. “The name and the object appeal to my sentimental nature, awaken poetic fancies in me, I assure you. This thing might symbolize the star of freedom which I pursue. At all events, it makes a certain appeal to me which I cannot resist.”
Vanderberg grinned.
“So, Frontin! So! Another theological argument?”
Crawford glanced up and smiled.