“What do you mean—blood stained?” Weems demanded.
“It’s one of the tragic stones of history,” said the other. “Men have sold their lives for it, and women their honor. One of the former marquises of Mount Aubyn killed his best friend in a duel for it. God knows what blood was spilled for it in India before it went to Europe.”
“You don’t believe all that junk, do you?” asked Weems.
“Junk!” the other flung back at him. “Have you ever looked at a ruby?”
“Sure I have,” Weems returned aggrieved. “Haven’t you seen my ruby stick pin?”
“Which represents to you only so many dollars, and is, after all, only a small stone. If you’d ever looked into the heart of a ruby you’d know what I mean. There’s a million little lurking devils in it, Weems, taunting you, mocking you, making you covet it and ready to do murder to have it for your own.”
Weems looked at him, startled for the moment. He had never known his friend so intense, so unlike his careless, debonair self.
“For the moment,” said Weems, “I thought you meant it. Of course you used to write fiction and that explains it.”
To his articles of faith Anthony Trent added another paragraph. He swore not to let his enthusiasm run away with him when he discussed jewels. Weems was safe enough. He was lucky to be in no other company. But suppose he had babbled to one of those keen-eyed men engaged in guarding Jerome Dangerfield, the multi-millionaire who shunned publicity! He determined to choose another subject.
“What does he take those men around with him for?” he asked.