The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack. R. Austin Freeman
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marked A, contains the full boxes. The other, marked B, contains the empties. I will leave you to deal with that at your convenience. My concern and Professor Eccles’s is with the other, which I will open at once and then we can get to work.”
He thrust the despised case B into a corner, and hoisting the other on to the table, unbuckled the straps, unlocked it, threw open the lid, and took out six sealed packages, which he placed side by side on the table.
“Shall I open them?” he asked, producing a pocket knife, “or will you?
“Before we disturb them,” said Thorndyke, “we had better examine the exteriors very carefully.”
“I’ve done that,” said Hollis. “I’ve been over each one most thoroughly and, so far as I can see, they are in exactly the same condition as they were when I handed them to Woodstock. The writing on them is certainly my writing and the seals are impressions of my seal, which, as you see, I carry on my finger in this ring.”
“In that case,” said Thorndyke, “we may as well open them forthwith. Perhaps I had better take off the wrappings, as I should like to preserve them and the seals intact.”
He took up the first package and turned it over in his hands, examining each surface closely. And as he did so, his two visitors watched him—the professor with slightly amused curiosity, the other with a dry, rather impatient manner not without a trace of scepticism. The package was about fourteen inches in length by nine wide and five inches deep. It was very neatly covered with a strong, smooth white paper bearing a number—thirteen—and a written and signed list of the contents, and sealed at each end in the middle. The paper was further secured by a string, tied tightly and skilfully, of which the knot was embedded in a mass of wax on which was an excellent impression of the seal.
“You see,” Hollis pointed out, “that the parcel has been made as secure as human care could make it. I should have said that it was perfectly impossible to open it without breaking the seals.”
“But surely,” exclaimed the professor, “it would be an absolute impossibility! Don’t you agree, Dr. Thorndyke?”
“We shall be better able to judge when we have seen the inside,” the latter replied. With a small pair of scissors he cut the string, which he placed on one side, and then, with great care, cut round each of the seals, removing them with the portions of paper on which they were fixed and putting them aside with the string. The rest of the paper was now taken off, disclosing a plain, white-wood box, the keyhole of which was covered by a strip of tape secured at each end by a seal seated in a small circular pit. Thorndyke cut the tape and held the box towards Hollis, who already held the key in readiness. This having been inserted and turned, Thorndyke raised the lid and laid the box on the table.
“There, Professor,” said he; “you can now answer your own question. The list of contents is on the cover. It is for you to say whether that list correctly describes the things which are inside.”
Professor Eccles drew a chair up to the table, and lifting from the inside of the box a thick pad of tissue paper (which Thorndyke took from him and placed with the string and the seals), ran his eye quickly over the neatly-arranged assemblage of jewels that reposed on a second layer of tissue. Very soon a slight frown began to wrinkle his forehead. He bent more closely over the box, looked narrowly first at one gem, then at another, and at length picked out a small, plain pendant set with a single oval green stone about half an inch in diameter.
“Leaf-green jargoon,” said he, reading from the list as he produced a Coddington lens from his pocket; “that is the one, isn’t it?”
Hollis grunted an assent as he watched the professor inspecting the gem through his lens.
“I remember the stone,” said the professor. “It was one of the finest of the kind that I have ever seen. Well, this isn’t it. This is not a jargoon at all. It is just a lump of green glass—flint glass, in fact. But it is quite well cut. The lapidary knew his job better than the jeweller. There has been some very rough work on the setting.”
“How much was the stone worth?” Thorndyke asked.
“The original? Not more than thirty pounds, I should say. It was a beautiful and interesting stone, but rather a collector’s specimen than a jeweller’s piece. The public won’t give big prices for out-of-the-way stones. They like diamonds, rubies, sapphires, and emeralds.”
“Is this counterfeit a true facsimile of the original? I mean as to size and style of cutting?”
Professor Eccles took from his pocket a small leather case, from which he extracted a calliper gauge. Applying this delicately to the exposed edges of the “girdle” between the claws, he read the vernier and then reapplied it in the other diameter.
“Seven-twelfths by three-quarters of an inch, brilliant cut,” he announced. “Do you happen to remember the dimensions, Mr. Hollis? These can’t be far out, as the stone fits the setting.”
“I’ve brought my catalogue,” said Hollis, producing a small, fat volume from his pocket. “Thought we might want it. What’s the number? Three-sixty-three. Here we are. ‘Jargoon. Full leaf-green. Brilliant cut. Seven-twelfths by three-quarters.’
“Then,” said the professor, “this would seem to be a perfect replica. Queer, isn’t it? I see your point, Doctor. This fellow has been to endless pains and some expense in lapidary’s charges—unless he is a lapidary himself—to say nothing of the risk; and all to get possession of a stone worth only about thirty pounds, and not easily marketable at that.”
“Some of the other stones are worth more, though,” remarked Hollis.
“True, true,” agreed the professor. “Let us look at some of the others. Ha! Here is one that looks a little suspicious, if my memory serves.”
He picked out a gold ornament set with a large cat’s-eye bordered with small diamonds and exhibited it to Hollis, who bent down to inspect it.
“Cat’s-eye,” he commented, after a long and anxious inspection. “Well, it looks all right to me. What’s the matter with it?”
“Oh, it is a cat’s-eye, sure enough, but not the right kind, I think. What does the catalogue say?”
Hollis turned over a page and read out: “Chrysoberyl. Cymophane or cat’s-eye. Brown, oval, cut en cabochon. Five-eighths by half an inch. Bordered by twelve diamonds.”
“I thought so,” said the professor. “This is a cat’s-eye, but not a chrysoberyl. It is a quartz cat’s-eye. But I should hardly have thought it would have been worth the trouble and expense of making the exchange. You see,” he added, taking the dimensions with his gauge, “this stone is apparently a facsimile of the missing one in size and shape and not a bad match in colour. The diamonds don’t appear to have been tampered with.”
“What about that emerald?” Hollis asked anxiously, indicating a massive ring set with a large, square stone bordered with diamonds. Professor Eccles picked up the ring, and at the first glance he pursed up his lips, dubiously. But he examined it carefully through his lens, nevertheless.
“Well?” demanded Hollis.
The professor shook his head sadly. “Paste,” he replied. “A good imitation as such things go, but unmistakable glass. Will you read out the description?”
Hollis did so; and once again the correspondence in dimensions and cutting showed the forgery to be a carefully-executed facsimile.
“This fellow was a conscientious rascal,” said the professor. “He did the thing thoroughly—excepting the settings.”
“Yes, damn him!” Hollis agreed, savagely. “That ring cost me close on twelve hundred pounds. It came from Lord Pycroft’s collection.”
Professor Eccles was deeply concerned; naturally enough, for any robbery of precious things involves a wicked waste. And then there was the depressing fact that the valuable “Hollis bequest” was melting away before his eyes.