He shrugged his shoulders.  The papers, too, had thrown the limelight on Max Diestricht, who, though for quite a time the fashion in the social world, had, up to the present, been comparatively unknown to the average New Yorker.  His own knowledge of Max Diestricht went deeper than the superficial biography furnished by the newspapers—­the old Hollander had done more than one piece of exquisite jewelry work for him.  The old fellow was a character that beggared description, eccentric to the point of extravagance, and deaf as a post; but, in craftmanship, a modern Cellini.  He employed no workmen, lived alone over his shop on one of the lower streets between Fifth and Sixth Avenues near Washington Square—­and possessed a splendid contempt for such protective contrivances as safes and vaults.  If his prospective patrons expostulated on this score before intrusting him with their valuables, they were at liberty to take their work elsewhere.  It was Max Diestricht who honoured you by accepting the commission; not you who honoured Max Diestricht by intrusting him with it.  “Of what use is it to me, a safe!” he would exclaim.  “It hides nothing; it only says, ’I am inside; do not look farther; come and get me!’ Yes?  It is to explode with the nitro-glycerin—­pouf!—­and I am deaf and I hear nothing.  It is a foolishness, that”—­he had a habit of prodding at one with a levelled fore-finger—­“every night somewhere they are robbed, and have I been robbed?  Hein, tell me that; have I been robbed?”

It was true.  In ten years, though at times having stones and precious metal aggregating large amounts deposited with him by his customers, Max Diestricht had never lost so much as the gold filings.  There was a queer smile on Jimmie Dale’s lips now.  The knot in the tenth board was significant!  Max Diestricht was scrupulously honest, a genius in originality and conception of design, a master in the perfection and delicacy of his finished work—­he had been commissioned to design and set the Ross-Logan necklace.

The brain works quickly.  All this and more had flashed almost instantaneously through Jimmie Dale’s mind.  His eyes fell to the letter again, and he read on.  Halfway through, a sudden whiteness blanched his face, and, following it, a surging tide of red that mounted to his temples.  It dazed him; it seemed to rob him for the moment of the power of coherent thought.  He was wrong; he had not read aright.  It was incredible, dare-devil beyond belief—­and yet in its very audacity lay success.  He finished the letter, read it once more—­and his fingers mechanically began to tear it into little shreds.  His brain was in a whirl, a vortex of conflicting emotions.  Had Whitey Mack and Lannigan left Bristol Bob’s yet?  Where were they now?  Was there time for—­this?  He was staring at the little torn scraps of paper in his hand.  He thrust them suddenly into his pocket, and jerked out his watch.  It was nearly midnight.  The broad, muscular shoulders seemed to square back curiously, the jaws to clamp a little, the face to harden and grow cold until it was like stone.  With a swift movement he emptied his glass into the cuspidor, set the glass back on the table, and stepped out from the stall.  His destination was Max Diestricht’s.