“What do you want me to do?” Denby demanded.
“Put those pearls in some other place,” he returned stubbornly.
Denby made a pass or two in the air as conjurers do when they perform their marvels.
“It’s done,” he cried. “From what part of my anatomy or yours shall I produce them?”
“There you go,” Monty exclaimed helplessly, “you won’t be serious. I’m getting all on the jump.”
“A cigarette will soothe you,” Denby told him, taking a flat leathern pouch from his pocket and offering it to the other.
“I can’t roll ’em,” Monty protested.
“Then a look at my tobacco has a soothing effect,” the elder man insisted. “I grow it in my private vineyard in Ruritania.”
Monty turned back the leather flap to look at his friend’s private brand and saw nestling in a place where once tobacco might have reposed a necklace of pearls for which a million of francs had been paid.
“Good Lord!” Monty gasped. “How did you do it?”