“Surely you can get them yourself,” I answered.
But he shook his head, and said that was impossible.
We were again followed down the streets of Oporto. My companion drew my attention to the fact, and then sidestepped into an umbrella shop. But he did not buy an umbrella. He bought a very neat, and rather expensive, sword stick, and offered to give me another like it.
“It may be useful,” he remarked.
I declined the sword stick, but accepted the thick cudgel which he had been carrying since I knew him.
That is practically the end of the story. He left Oporto two days later, and before going made one last request. It was that I should send a telegram which he had written out, to an address in South Kensington. It was to the following effect:
“Arriving in London Saturday. Cannot get the pebbles.”
What is the meaning of that mystery? I cannot give a guess, and have sometimes thought of offering the problem to Conan Doyle.
Sometimes, also, I have wondered whether it is in any way connected with an incident that took place in the abandoned palace of King Manuel, or rather, in his garden. From the newspaper reports it appeared that some of the royal jewels had been buried before the flight of King Manuel. Perhaps it was for the purpose of digging for them that three men, of whom one was believed to be an Englishman, had entered the palace garden on the night of my arrival in Lisbon. A sentry had discovered them and fired. The men fired back, and the sentry was wounded, before they escaped over the wall.
Was that man “believed to be an Englishman” my mysterious acquaintance? I am tempted to think so, yet I cannot provide a theory for the pebbles from the seashore, the jewel box, the shadowing in the streets of Lisbon, the purchase of the sword stick, and the eagerness for my company.