“Your birth stone is the bloodstone. Unhappy, indeed, would be the omen if you lost one of those gems.” (He was fishing and came forward toward her, almost brushing Kent.)
“But I say,” cried Kent in apparently uncontrollable agitation; “did your stars tell you that she had lost some jewelry? Tell me, is that how you knew?”
See how the aural light seeks it.
In his eagerness he caught at the astrologer’s arm, the right one, and his long fingers, gathering in the ample folds of the gown, pressed nervously upon the wrist. Preston Jax winced away. All the excited vapidity passed from Kent’s speech at once.
“The jewels which this lady has lost,” he said very quietly, “are a set of unique rose-topazes. I thought—in fact, I felt that you could, with or without the aid of your stars, help her to recover them.”
Blackness, instant and impenetrable, was the answer to this. There was a subdued flowing sound of drapery, as if some one were brushing along the wall. Kent raised his voice the merest trifle.
“Unless you wish to be arrested, I advise you not to leave this place. Not by either exit.”
“Arrested on what charge?” came half-chokingly out of the darkness.
“Theft.”