“But how do you know he makes them?” demanded Mr. Latham, returning to the main question.

“He suggested it by his question,” Mr. Czenki went on.  “That suggestion lingered in my mind.  When the detective, Mr. Birnes, reported that Mr. Wynne was an importer of brown sugar I was on the point of advancing a theory that the diamonds were manufactured, because of all known substances burnt brown sugar is richest in carbon.  But you, Mr. Latham, had discredited a previous suggestion of mine, and I—­I—­well, I didn’t suggest it.  Instead, that night I personally began an investigation to see what disposition was made of the sugar.  I found that the ships discharged their cargoes in Hoboken, that the sugar was there loaded on barges, and those barges hauled up a small stream to the little town of Coaldale, all consigned to a Mr. Hugo Kellner.

“It took Friday, all day Saturday, and a great part of to-day to learn all this.  This afternoon I went to see Mr. Kellner.  I found him murdered.”  He stated it merely as an inconvenient incident.  “In the room with the body were Mr. Birnes, Chief Arkwright of the New York police, and another New York detective.  I had glanced at the story of Red Haney and the diamonds in the morning papers, and from what I knew, and from Mr. Birnes’ presence, I surmised something of the truth.  I was instantly placed under arrest for murder—­the murder of this man I had never seen—­the real diamond master, the man who achieved it all.”

He was silent for a moment, as if from infinite weariness.

" . . .  Mr. Wynne came, and a Miss Kellner, granddaughter of the dead man. . . .  He saw me, and understood . . . between us we contrived that I should be taken away as the murderer, and so prevent an immediate search of the house. . . .  I made no denial. . . .  I permitted myself to be taken . . . some mistake as to identity. . . .  I proved an alibi by the shipping men in Hoboken . . . the diamonds are there, untold millions of dollars’ worth of them . . . the diamond master is dead!”

Mr. Latham had been listening, as if dazed, to the hurried, somewhat disconnected, narrative; Mr. Schultze, keener to comprehend all that the story meant, was silent for a moment.

“Den if all dose men know all he has told us, Laadham,” he remarked finally, “our diamonds are nod worth any more as potatoes alretty.”

“But they don’t know,” Mr. Czenki burst out fiercely.  “Don’t you understand?  Haney, or somebody, killed Mr. Kellner and stole some uncut diamonds—­you must have seen the newspaper account of it to-day.  The New York police traced Haney’s course to Coaldale and to that house.  But all they know is that sixty thousand dollars’ worth of uncut stones were stolen.  There was not even a suggestion to them of the millions and millions of dollars’ worth that were manufactured.  Don’t you understand?  I permitted myself to be accused and arrested, knowing I could establish