‘I believe it was a necklace,’ assented the visitor. ‘My friend celebrated his silver wedding last year, and the diamonds were a gift to his wife on that occasion.’
The room was dimly lighted with a single candle, which the servant had set down upon the centre table when she admitted the stranger.
Mr. Mosheh drew down a moveable gutta-percha gas tube, and lighted an office lamp which stood beside his desk. By this light he examined the jewels. Not content with the closest inspection, he took a little file from his waistcoat pocket, and drew it across the face of one of the stones.
‘Your friend is doubly a fool, if he isn’t a knave,’ said Mr. Mosheh. ‘These stones are sham.’
There came a look so ghastly over the face of the grey-bearded man that the aspect of death itself could hardly have been more awful.
‘It’s a lie!’ he gasped.
‘You are an impudent rascal, sir, to bring me such trumpery, and a blatant ass for thinking you could palm your paste upon Benjamin Mosheh, a man who has dealt in diamonds, off and on, for nearly thirty years. The stones are imitation, very clever in their way, and a very good colour. Look here, sir; do you see the mark my file leaves on the surface? Father Abraham, how the man trembles! Do you mean to tell me that you’ve been fooled by these stones—that you’ve given money for them? I don’t believe a word of your cock-and-a-bull story about your London tradesman and his silver wedding. But do you mean to say you didn’t know these stones were duffers, and that I shouldn’t be justified in giving you in charge for trying to obtain money upon false pretences?’
‘As I am a living man, I thought them real,’ gasped the grey-bearded man, who had been seized with a convulsive trembling awful to see.
‘And you advanced money upon them?’
‘Yes.’