He had laughed. He was incredulous of himself. He sat on the edge of her bed listening to her whisper, a tortured whisper which she made supremely funny—a mock-conspirator's whisper which drew them close to one another in an outrageous intimacy.
"At any rate you had made a good enemy that time," he said.
She panted.
"Ah no—no. 'E 'ave a fine sense of humour, Monsieur ze Grand Duke. 'E laugh too. 'E say—'Gyp—you are ze ver' devil 'erself!' 'Ere, but this ruby—I don't care much for rubies—but this one 'ave a real fine story."
And so one by one the stones were taken up and held a moment, some to be discarded with a name or a forgetful shrug, and some to linger a while longer whilst she recalled their little ribald histories. And it seemed to Robert Stonehouse that gradually the room filled with invisible personages who, as the jewels dropped from her waxen fingers into the gaping box, bowed to her and took their leave. And at last they were all gone but one. He seemed to hear them, their footsteps receding faintly along the corridors.
She held an unset pearl in her hand.
"This one 'ave a ver' nice leetle story. A brigand give it me when 'e 'old up ze train between Mexico City and ze coast. A fine fellow—with a sombrero and a manner!" (She looked past Stonehouse, smiling, as though she too saw the shadow twirling its black moustache and staring back at her with gallant admiration.) "And brave too, nombre de Dios! And 'e bow and say: 'One does not take ransom from Mademoiselle Labelle. One pays tribute.' And 'e give me this to remember 'im by—as I give it you, Monsieur Robert."
He stood up sharply.
"No—I—I don't care for that kind of thing."
"For your wife, then!"