"Your Grace must forgive me if the offer I am about to make to you seems strange, as it cannot help but seem. If you knew all I am sure you would forgive me. I will give you ten thousand pounds for the diamond in your hair!"
"You will give me ten thousand pounds—for the diamond—in my hair?"
Half mechanically the lady raised her hand to her head Her fingers lighted on the jewel which gleamed among her tresses. As they did so, and some faint comprehension of the stranger's meaning dawned upon her mind, her face became a crimson-red.
"My husband's present! Are you a madman, sir; or do you purposely insult me?"
"That diamond was mine. On its possession I had founded all my hopes of fortune. It was taken from me by means of a trick." Perhaps Mr. Brooke thought he spoke the truth. One can but hope he did. "I received for it not a twentieth part of the sum I offer you." Again he slightly erred. "But rather than it should be lost to me for ever, poor as I am, I will give you—I will give you—twelve thousand pounds."
"Twelve thousand pounds!" Her Grace's hand was lifted to her corsage. Possibly it brushed against the ball programme, with the compound addition sum upon its back, which lay within. "You will give me twelve thousand pounds?" She drew a deep breath. "But—but it's absurd! Who are you, sir, that you forget who I am?"
"What does it matter who I am? I am Harold Brooke. I am the modern equivalent of the soldier
