"Watson, my wife has stolen them."
"Burgoyne!"
The empty case fell to the ground with a crash. It almost seemed as though Mr. Watson would have fallen after it. He seemed even more distressed than his friend. His face was clammy, his hands were trembling.
"Burgoyne, what--whatever do you mean?"
"My wife's a kleptomaniac, that's what I mean."
"A kleptomaniac! You--you don't mean that she has taken the stones?"
"I do. Sounds like a joke doesn't it?"
"A joke! I don't know what you call a joke! It'll be no joke for me. There's to be a meeting, and those stones will have to be produced for experts to examine. If they are not forthcoming, I shall have to explain what has become of them, and those are not the men to listen to any talk of kleptomania. And it isn't the money they will want, it's the stones. At this crisis those stones are worth a hundred thousand pounds to us, and more! It'll be your ruin, and mine, if they are not found."
"They will be found. It is only a little game she plays. She hides, we seek and find. I think I may undertake to produce them for you in half-an-hour."
"I hope you will," said Mr. Watson, still with clammy face and trembling hands. "My God, I hope you will."