“D’ye want to sell the thing, Halcro?” said the skipper.  “He says he canna buy it himsel’, but he kens its value.  He’s the agent of a diamond merchant in Amsterdam.”

I hesitated to answer, reflecting upon my need of money.  My mother was poor; I could help her by selling this thing, and then, if I should get for it more than sufficed for her immediate needs, was there not this pilot boat to buy?  I might be able to become part owner of the St. Magnus.

“What does he say the diamond is worth?” I asked of Flett.

The sum he named astonished me.  I could scarcely contain my wonder at the thought of it.

“Five hundred guineas,” answered Flett.

Five hundred guineas!  Why, that was a fortune.

“Would you give me that much for it?” I asked, looking at old Isaac.

“Ah! mine young man, you tink me rich.  I could not offer you five hundred shilling for the stone.  I only tell you it is vort so much.”

He thereupon replaced the gem within its covering of stone, drew on the band of gold again, and returned to me my talisman in its original condition.  Then he drank the gin that was in the glass before him, and put back his little scales into his pocket.  Before leaving us he handed me a little card on which was inscribed the name of a diamond merchant in Amsterdam.

“You are a sailorman,” he said, buttoning up his coat.  “You may be in Amsterdam one day.  If you go to dat address dey vill buy the stone from you; but do not take one groschen less dan five hundred guineas.  Good day, mynheer!”

And he went out.

“Weel,” said Davie Flett, “I must say that’s a queer auld fellow.”

“He seems to have turned honest,” I said.

“The auld scoundrel has taken a liking for you, Halcro,” said the skipper, smiling.

“But,” said I, “I almost wish he had bought the diamond.”

“Nonsense, lad! keep it and bide ye’re time.  Besides, you forget the dominie’s ‘Law of Treasure Trove’”

“Ah, yes, I suppose I would only be entitled to a third of the money after all,” I said.  “But what about the pilot boat?”

“That will be all square, my lad.  Did they not tell you that I had bought the St. Magnus?”

“No! do you really mean that, captain?”

“Certainly I mean it.  And you and Jack Paterson can start the piloting as soon’s ye like.”

That night, as I sat at Andrew Drever’s fireside talking of Jarl Haffling’s talisman, Thora Quendale told us how, when one day after her illness she was sitting in an armchair, with the stone dangling by a string from her hand, she fell asleep before the warm fire.  She was awakened by hearing a footstep in the room; it was Tom Kinlay’s.  She felt for the stone, but it was gone.  Tom had stolen it.  This was how it came into his possession.  Evidently it was by a mere accident that he left it at the top of the cliff, before going down to the cave, after the death of Colin Lothian.