“And men also. Say it.” Ward leaned forward on the polished table and laid a small leather case before him. “I like to carry unset stones around in my pockets, not for decoration. What would you call me, Marchese?”
“An idolator, either of the beautiful or of the peculiar quality of concentrated value that seems to lie in jewels.”
Ward lifted out two pearls, wrapped in tissue papers, and held them in the hollow of his palm.
“You’re right. Here are the largest gems from the collections of the murdered Empress Elizabeth of Austria. They always darkened when she wore them. She had them dipped regularly in a perforated casket into the sea to restore the luster. It is not alone the value of them that interests me. I like stones that have tragic stories connected with them. There was a necklace of pearls around the throat of Marie Stuart as she was being led to execution. I have never been able to find them. Jurka is also a collector and lover of gems from the historic standpoint. He is standing by the desk now, the tall fellow, fair-haired. Do you recognize him?”
The Marchese looked through the arched doorway at the man Ward had designated. He was trying to place where he had seen him, and suddenly smiled, one forefinger at his forehead.
“He was at the Lafayette a week ago Saturday, dining with Palmieri, Collector of the Port, a delightful person.”
“Well posted on the valuation of jewels,” Ward remarked laconically. He paused to light his favorite pipe with the air of assured bonhomie he assumed when relaxed. “How is Carlota?”
“She progresses well.”
“Why not after two years under Jacobelli? He tells me her technique is faultless, but she lacks temperament.”
“He does not know her,” the Marchese answered placidly. “The temperament is there dormant. It needs but the awakening. She is still a child.”