He is looking for a wedding present for her; something a little out of the common. I went to him. I show him this. I tell him I think I know where there is another like it. He offered me for the pair—for the pair, you understand" Mr. Fungst leaned over. He whispered in his friend's ear.
"You don't mean it?"
"To a centime that is what he offered."
Mr. Brooke whistled. "And I sold it for a thousand pounds!"
"To whom did you sell it?"
"To a man named Tyrrel."
Mr. Brooke had risen from his seat. He began to walk about the room.
"Tyrrel of Clerkenwell?"
"The same."
"Then, after all, to-night I must go to London. It is for me to buy it back again."
"For you?" Mr. Brooke faced round. "It strikes me, Fungst, that it's for me to buy it back again."
"Very good, my friend. But it is possible that Mr. Tyrrel may know more about diamonds than you. He will want more than his thousand pounds."
Mr. Brooke bit his lip. "He knows me. He will give me credit."
"As to that we shall see."
Mr. Fungst began to cram some things into a Gladstone bag. Mr. Brooke watched him for some moments. Then he went and touched him on the shoulder.
"Look here, Fungst, what are you driving at? What do you think you're going to do?"
