“Yes,” he replied, wearily. “Very—but somehow or other I'm depressed to-night.”
“Too bad,” I said, lightly, “but there are others. There's that poor Nizam of Jigamaree, for instance—poor devil, he must be the bluest brown man that ever lived.”
Wilkins started nervously as I mentioned the prince by name.
“Wh-why do you think that?” he asked, nervously fingering his butter-knife.
“It's tough luck to have to give away a diamond that's worth three or four times as much as the Koh-i-noor,” I said. “Suppose you owned a stone like that. Would you care to give it away?”
“Not by a damn sight!” cried Wilkins, forcibly, and I noticed great tears gathering in his eyes.
“Still, he can't help himself, I suppose,” I said, gazing abruptly at his scarf-pin. “That is, he doesn't KNOW that he can. The Queen expects it. It's been announced, and now the poor devil can't get out of it—though I'll tell you, Mr. Wilkins, if I were the Nizam of Jigamaree, I'd get out of it in ten seconds.”
I winked at him significantly. He looked at me blankly.
“Yes, sir,” I added, merely to arouse him, “in just ten seconds! Ten short, beautiful seconds.”
“Mr. Postlethwaite,” said the Nizam—Postlethwaite was the name I was travelling under—“Mr. Postlethwaite,” said the Nizam—otherwise Wilkins—“your remarks interest me greatly.” His face wreathed with a smile that I had never before seen there. “I have thought as you do in regard to this poor Indian prince, but I must confess I don't see how he can get out of giving the Queen that diamond. Have a cigar, Mr. Postlethwaite, and, waiter, bring us a triple magnum of champagne. Do you really think, Mr. Postlethwaite, that there is a way out of it? If you would like a ticket to Westminster for the ceremony, there are a half-dozen.”