“I must go into this myself!” cried M. Formery in wild excitement.
Without more ado he began to mount the steps. Guerchard followed him. The Duke saw their heels disappear up the steps. Then he came out of the drawing-room and inquired for M. Gournay-Martin. He was told that the millionaire was up in his bedroom; and he went upstairs, and knocked at the door of it.
M. Gournay-Martin bade him enter in a very faint voice, and the Duke found him lying on the bed. He was looking depressed, even exhausted, the shadow of the blusterous Gournay-Martin of the day before. The rich rosiness of his cheeks had faded to a moderate rose-pink.
“That telegram,” moaned the millionaire. “It was the last straw. It has overwhelmed me. The coronet is lost.”
“What, already?” said the Duke, in a tone of the liveliest surprise.
“No, no; it’s still in the safe,” said the millionaire. “But it’s as good as lost—before midnight it will be lost. That fiend will get it.”
“If it’s in this safe now, it won’t be lost before midnight,” said the Duke. “But are you sure it’s there now?”
“Look for yourself,” said the millionaire, taking the key of the safe from his waistcoat pocket, and handing it to the Duke.
The Duke opened the safe. The morocco case which held the coronet lay on the middle shell in front of him. He glanced at the millionaire, and saw that he had closed his eyes in the exhaustion of despair. Whistling softly, the Duke opened the case, took out the diadem, and examined it carefully, admiring its admirable workmanship. He put it back in the case, turned to the millionaire, and said thoughtfully:
“I can never make up my mind, in the case of one of these old diadems, whether one ought not to take out the stones and have them re-cut. Look at this emerald now. It’s a very fine stone, but this old-fashioned cutting does not really do it justice.”