“They once belonged to the dead Sultan Abdul Hamid of Turkey,” he replied; “but at present they belong to me!” He laughed grimly.
Inwardly I wondered by what means the priceless gems had fallen into his hands. He read my thoughts at once, for he said:
“You are curious, of course, as to how I became possessed of them. Naturally. Well, Hargreave, it’s a very funny story and concerns a real good fellow and, incidentally, a very pretty girl. Take a cigar, sit down, and I’ll tell you frankly all about it—only, of course, not a word of the facts will ever pass your lips—not to Lola, or to anybody else. Your lips are sealed.”
“I promise,” I said, selecting one of his choice cigars and lighting it, my curiosity aroused.
“Then listen,” he said, “and I’ll tell you the whole facts, as far as I’ve been able to gather them.”
What he recounted was certainly romantic, though a little involved, for he was not a very good raconteur. However, in setting down this curious story—a story which shows that he was not altogether bad, and was a sportsman after all—I have rearranged his words in narrative form, so that readers of these curious adventures may fully understand.
“How horribly glum you are to-night, dear! What’s the matter? Are you sad that we should meet here—in Paris?” asked a pretty girl.
“Glum!” echoed the smooth-haired young man in the perfectly fitting dinner-jacket and black tie. “I really didn’t know that I looked glum,” and then, straightening himself, he looked across the table à deux in the gay Restaurant Volnay at the handsome, dark-haired, exquisitely dressed girl who sat before him with her elbows on the table.