I
faltered and prevaricated feebly. Where was my moral courage, and where
was the good, honest, thumping lie that should have aided me? "I have the
best authority for recognizing this as a very good copy of a famous stone
in the possession of the Bishop of Northchurch." His scowl grew so black
that I saw he believed me, and I went on more cheerily: "This was
manufactured by Johannes Bogaerts--I can give you his address, and you can
make inquiries yourself--by special permission of the then owner, the late
Leone Montanaro."
"Hand it back!" he interrupted (his other remarks were outrageous, but
satisfactory to hear); but I waved him off. I couldn't give it up. It
fascinated me. I toyed with it, I caressed it. I made it display its
different tones of color. I must see the two stones together. I must see
it outshine its paltry rival. It was a whimsical frenzy that seized me--I
can call it by no other name.
"Would you like to see the original? Curiously enough, I have it here. The
bishop has left it in my charge."
The wolfish light flamed up in Carwitchet's eyes as I drew forth the case.
He laid the Valdez down on a sheet of paper, and I placed the other, still
in its case, beside it. In that moment they looked identical, except for
the little loop of sham stones, replaced by a plain gold band in the
bishop's jewel.
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