“Your mother?”
“I expect so, in the same way as the different jewels which she left me.”
“Is your mother dead?”
“Yes, she died when I was four years old. I have only the vaguest recollection of her. But what has all this to do with a rosary?”
“It’s because of this,” he said. “Because of this amethyst bead broken in two.”
He undid his jacket and took his watch from his waistcoat-pocket. It had a number of trinkets fastened to it by a little leather and silver strap. One of these trinkets consisted of the half of an amethyst bead, also broken across, also held in a filigree setting. The original size of the two beads seemed to be identical. The two amethysts were of the same color and contained in the same filigree.
Coralie and Belval looked at each other anxiously. She stammered:
“It’s only an accident, nothing else . . .”
“I agree,” he said. “But, supposing these two halves fit each other exactly . . .”
“It’s impossible,” she said, herself frightened at the thought of the simple little act needed for the indisputable proof.