One week ago I took the liberty of sending to you, and to each of four other leading jewelers of this city whose names you know, a single large diamond of rare cutting and color.  Please accept this as a gift from me, and be good enough to convey my compliments to the other four gentlemen, and assure them that theirs, too, were gifts.

Believe me, I had no intention of making a mystery of this.  It was necessary definitely to attract your attention, and I could conceive of no more certain way than in this manner.  In return for the value of the jewels I shall ask that you and the four others concerned give me an audience in your office on Thursday afternoon next at three o’clock; that you make known this request to the others; and that three experts whose judgment you will all accept shall meet with us.

   I believe you will appreciate the necessity of secrecy in this
   matter, for the present at least.  Respectfully,

   E. Van Cortlandt Wynne

They were on hand promptly, all of them—­Mr. Latham, Mr. Schultze, Mr. Solomon, Mr. Stoddard and Mr. Harris.  The experts agreed upon were the unemotional Mr. Czenki, Mr. Cawthorne, an Englishman in the employ of Solomon, Berger and Company, and Mr. Schultze, who gravely admitted that he was the first expert in the land, after Mr. Czenki, and whose opinion of himself was unanimously accepted by the others.  The meeting place was the directors’ room of the H. Latham Company.

At one minute of three o’clock a clerk entered with a card, and handed it to Mr. Latham.

“‘Mr. E. van Cortlandt Wynne,’” Mr. Latham read aloud, and every man in the room moved a little in his chair.  Then:  “Show him in here, please.”

“Now, gendlemens,” observed Mr. Schultze sententiously, “ve shall zee vat ve shall zee.”

The clerk went out and a moment later Mr. Wynne appeared.  He was tall and rather slender, alert of eyes, graceful of person; perfectly self-possessed and sure of himself, yet without one trace of egotism in manner or appearance—­a fair type of the brisk, courteous young business man of New York.  He wore a tweed suit, and in his left hand carried a small sole-leather grip.  For an instant he stood, framed by the doorway, meeting the sharp scrutiny of the assembled jewelers with a frank smile.  For a little time no one spoke—­merely gazed—­and finally: 

“Mr. Latham?” queried Mr. Wynne, looking from one to the other.

Mr. Latham came to his feet with a sudden realization of his responsibilities as a temporary host, and introductions followed.  Mr. Wynne passed along on one side of the table, shaking hands with each man in turn until he came to Mr. Czenki.  Mr. Latham introduced them.

“Mr. Czenki,” repeated Mr. Wynne, and he allowed his eyes to rest frankly upon the expert for a moment.  “Your name has been repeated to me so often that I almost feel as if I knew you.”