Hargrave told her that he would be very glad to give her the benefit of his experience.
“Glad, nonsense!” she said. “I'll pay your fee. Do you know a jewel when you see it?”
“I think I do, madam,” he replied.
She moved with energy.
“It won't do to think,” she said. “I have got to know. I don't buy junk.”
He tried to carry himself up to her level with a laugh.
“I assure you, madam,” he said, “our house is not accustomed to buy junk. It's a perfectly simple matter to tell a spurious jewel.”
And he began to explain the simple, decisive tests. But she did not listen to him.
“I don't care how a vet knows that a hunter's sound. All that I want to be certain about is that he does know it. I don't want to buy hunters on my own hook. Neither do I want to buy jewels on what I know about them. If you know, that's all I care about it. And you must know or old Bartholdi wouldn't trust you. That's what I'm going on.”
She was a big aggressive woman, full of energy. Hargrave could not see her very well, but that much was abundantly clear. The carriage turned out of Piccadilly Circus, crossed Trafalgar Square and stopped before Blackwell's Hotel. Blackwell's has had a distinct clientele since the war; a sort of headquarters for Southeastern European visitors to London.