Shortly before the end of the first act, while the attention of the audience was riveted on the stage, a man quietly entered the Laure box, and touching Count Telfus on the shoulder whispered a few words in his ear. The Count gave a sudden start, his face blanching perceptibly, but with perfect composure of carriage he arose, and, excusing himself to the ladies, retired from the box. The stranger had entered unnoticed by the other occupants, who were attentively listening to the music of the opera, with the exception of Donald Laure, who had been an observer of the proceeding. As the curtain fell at the end of the act he followed the Count.
Major Kildare, who had been interested in watching the face of Mrs Laure, observed this scene in the box and drew Herr Schwatka’s attention. The latter sprang to his feet, at the same time exclaiming, in a voice low but audible to those in the immediate vicinity, “Detectives.” Drawing the Major’s arm through his, he led him out of the theatre, into the café adjoining, where they found Count Telfus in charge of two men of the detective force. The Count stood silent in the midst of the excited crowd that filled the room; but his pale face and the nervous manner in which he bit on an unlighted cigar plainly showed that he was suffering intensely.
“Count Telfus,” said one of the detectives, “we have an order for your arrest, and you must also permit us to search you. We trust that we have been misinformed, but a marked diamond has been traced to your possession, and our orders are imperative.”
“I have nothing about me not mine by a legitimate ownership,” said the Count, in a cold, clear voice, “and I will not submit to the outrage of a personal search. It is well known that I am a licensed diamond buyer; here is the proof of it.” And he drew a paper from his pocket.
“That you are a licensed buyer is the greater reason why your dealings should be honest,” rejoined one of his captors, proceeding to search him. Even as he spoke he drew a large diamond from the Count’s vest-pocket.
“Fifteen years in the chain-gang,” cried an ex-Judge who had bought many a stone on the sly.
“Father Abraham!” exclaimed a sympathising Israelite, “how could he be so careless with such a blazer.” Similar ejaculations rose from the crowd around him.
In those bitter moments a despair like, death fell on Telfus; for his life was blighted and his family name disgraced. He did not see that excited crowd of which he was the centre; he only saw, in his mind’s eye, his mother’s face filled with an agony of shame. And he heard, with the acuteness that comes only in times of greatest distress, the low contralto tones of a soulful voice floating from the stage of the theatre within, and breathing out the words: “Farewell, farewell, my dear, my happy home.”
Alone he stood, bidding an inward farewell to his own home—condemned to an infamous exposure.
His friends around him were powerless to aid, for the diamond had been found on him. “Sorry for you, old boy,” said Dr Fox, an American, as he wrung the hand above which the detectives put on the bracelets of the law, which shutting with a click, struck on the Count’s consciousness like a knell of doom. He gasped, and stifled a cry that rose to his lips. When his hands were secured, followed by a noisy crowd, he was led to a Cape cart standing in front of the door. He sank into the seat, a brokenhearted man, his thoughts far away in that home in Paris, which on the morrow would be filled with sorrow and anguish.