the missing jewel; and I caused investigations to be set on foot in New York by a trusty agent, which resulted in the discovery that The Rose of the Morning had been sold some six months before to a jeweler in Maiden lane for about one-twenty-fifth of its value, the peculiar tint of the stone, and the purchaser’s ignorance of the estimation in which it is held by the gem-fanciers of Europe, having militated against the magnitude of the valuation set upon it.  It was secured for me at a comparatively trifling price.  The person who sold it to the jeweler some six months ago, in spite of a partial disguise and an assumed name, was easy to recognize, from the description given, as that lady of many names, Mrs. John Archer’s governess.  Now, Rose Coral, what say you?  You may be Mrs. Clement Rutherford, my brother’s lawful wife, but you are not the less a thief and a criminal, for whom the laws have terrible punishment and bitter degradation.”

“This is but a poor invention:  where are your proofs?” she cried, looking up as she spoke, but her faltering voice and quivering lips contradicted her words.

“Here is my chief witness.”  He drew off his left-hand glove as he spoke, and extended his hand toward her.  On the third finger blazed the beautiful gem of which he had spoken, its great size and purity fully displayed in the pale afternoon sunlight that flashed back in rosy radiance from its bright-tinted depths.

“It is almost too large to wear as a ring,” he said with great coolness, looking at the jewel, “but I wish it to run no further risks till I can transfer it to its lawful owner, which will be as soon as it has played its talismanic part by freeing my brother from his impostor-wife.”

The lady rose from her seat, pale, calm and resolved.

“Further insults are useless, sir,” she said.  “The game is ended now, and you have won it.  What is it that you wish me to do?”

“You must sail for Europe in one of next week’s steamers, leaving behind you such a confession of guilt as will enable my brother to procure a divorce without revealing the shameful fact that he was the innocent means of introducing an impostor—­a ci-devant lorette—­to his family and friends as his wife.  Better this scandal of an elopement than the horror of having such a story made public.  An income amply sufficient for your wants will be settled upon you, on condition that you never return to the United States, and never, in any way, proclaim the fact that Mrs. Clement Rutherford and Rose Coral were one and the same person.”

“I accept your conditions,” she said, wearily.  “I will go, never to return.  Now leave me.  But stay:  will you not answer me one question?”

“I will, certainly.”

“Who was it that discovered my secret?”