Jun's expression changed; his features blenched, then a flame of blood rushed over his face.
"It's a lie," he yelled. "He cleared out—I never saw him afterwards!"
"Oh well," George said, "we'll let bygones be bygones, Jun. Let's have a look at that flat stone."
Jun handed him the stone.
George held it to the light.
"Nice bit of opal," he said, letting the light play over it a moment, then passed it on to Michael and Watty.
"You keep the big stone, and Paul'll have this," Archie Cross said.
He put the stone beside Paul's' little heap of gems.
Jun sat back in his chair: his eyes smouldering as the men went over his opals, appraising and allotting each one, putting some before Rouminof, and some back before him. They dealt as judicially with the stones as though they were a jury of experts, on the case—as they really were. When their decisions were made, Jun had still rather the better of the stones, although the division had been as nearly fair as possible.
Paul was too dazed and amazed to speak. He glanced dubiously from his stones to Jun, who rolled his opals back in the strip of dirty flannel, folded it into his leather wallet, and dropped that into his coat pocket. Then he pushed back his chair and stood up.