“I am,” said Jimmy. “Well, it occurred to you, naturally enough, that a properly-selected gift of jewellery might work the trick. It only needed a little nerve. When you give a present of diamonds to a lady she is not likely to call for polarised light and refracting liquids and the rest of the circus. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred she will take the thing on trust. Very well. You trotted off to a jeweller and put the thing to him confidentially. I expect you suggested paste; but, being a wily person, he pointed out that paste has a habit of not wearing well. It is pretty enough when it’s new, but quite a small amount of ordinary wear and tear destroys the polish of the surface and the sharpness of the cutting. It gets scratched easily. Having heard this, and reflected that Lady Julia was not likely to keep the necklace under a glass case, you rejected paste as too risky. The genial jeweller then suggested white jargoon, mentioning, as I have done, that after an application or so of the blow-pipe its own mother wouldn’t know it. If he was a bit of an antiquary, he probably added that in the eighteenth century jargoon stones were supposed to be actually an inferior sort of diamond. What could be more suitable? ‘Make it jargoon, dear heart,’ you cried joyfully, and all was well. Am I right? I notice that you have not corrected me so far.”
Whether Sir Thomas would have replied in the affirmative is uncertain. He was opening his mouth to speak when the curtain at the end of the room heaved, and Lord Dreever burst out like a cannon-ball in tweeds.
The apparition effectually checked any speech that Sir Thomas might have been intending to make. Lying back in his chair, he goggled silently at the new arrival. Even Jimmy, though knowing that his lordship was in hiding, was taken aback.
His lordship broke the silence.
“Great Scot!” he cried.
Neither Jimmy nor Sir Thomas seemed to consider the observation unsound or inadequate. They permitted it to pass without comment.
“You old scoundrel!” added his lordship, addressing Sir Thomas; “and you’re the man who called me a welsher!” There were signs of a flicker of spirit in the knight’s prominent eyes, but they died away. He made no reply.
“Great Scot!” moaned his lordship, in a fever of self-pity, “here have I been all these years letting you give me Hades in every shape and form, when all the while—— My goodness, if I’d only known earlier!”
He turned to Jimmy.
“Pitt, old man,” he said warmly, “I—dash it—I don’t know what to say. If it hadn’t been for you—I always did like Americans.”