Mrs. Malplaquet clapped her hands, her eyes shining.
“Bravo, bravo!” she exclaimed, “that’s the spirit! That’s the way to talk, Mortimer!”
“Cut it out,” snarled Behrend, “and let’s see the goods!”
All had left their seats and were gathered in a group about Mortimer as he began to break the gleaming red wag seals. One by one he burst them, the white paper slipped off and disclosed... a box of cigarettes.
Mortimer stood gazing in stupefaction at the gaudy green and gold lettering of the box. Then, running his thumb-nail swiftly along the edge of the box, he broke the paper wrapping, the box burst open and a shower of cigarettes fell to the ground.
“So that’s your Star of Poland, is it?” cried Behrend in a mocking voice.
“Wot ’ave yer done wiv’ the sparklers, eh?” demanded Max, catching Mortimer roughly by the arm.
But Mortimer stood, aimlessly shaking the empty box in front of him, as though to convince himself that the gem was not there. Behrend fell on his knees and raked the pile of cigarettes over and over with his fingers.
“Nothing there!” he shouted angrily, springing to his feet. “It’s all bluff! He’s bluffing to the end! See, he doesn’t even attempt to find his famous jewel! He knows it isn’t there!”
But Mortimer paid no heed. He was staring straight in front of him, a strangely woe-begone figure with his thatch of untidy hair and round goggle eyes. Then the cigarette box fell to the floor with a crash as Mortimer’s hands dropped, with, a hopeless gesture, to his sides.