“Strike while the iron’s hot,” she cried.  “This sudden illness, coming at the end of their honeymoon, and involving ten days’ more stay at an expensive hotel, will probably upset the curate’s budget.  He’ll be glad to sell now.  You’ll get them for three hundred.  It was absurd of Charles to offer so much at first; but offered once, of course we must stick to it.”

“What do you propose to do?” Charles asked.  “Write, or telegraph?”

“Oh, how silly men are!” Amelia cried.  “Is this the sort of business to be arranged by letter, still less by telegram?  No.  Seymour must start off at once, taking the night train to Paris; and the moment he gets there, he must interview the curate or Mrs. Brabazon.  Mrs. Brabazon’s the best.  She has none of this stupid, sentimental nonsense about Uncle Aubrey.”

It is no part of a secretary’s duties to act as a diamond broker.  But when Amelia puts her foot down, she puts her foot down—­a fact which she is unnecessarily fond of emphasising in that identical proposition.  So the self-same evening saw me safe in the train on my way to Paris; and next morning I turned out of my comfortable sleeping-car at the Gare de Strasbourg.  My orders were to bring back those diamonds, alive or dead, so to speak, in my pocket to Lucerne; and to offer any needful sum, up to two thousand five hundred pounds, for their immediate purchase.

When I arrived at the Deux Mondes I found the poor little curate and his wife both greatly agitated.  They had sat up all night, they said, with their invalid sister; and the sleeplessness and suspense had certainly told upon them after their long railway journey.  They were pale and tired, Mrs. Brabazon, in particular, looking ill and worried—­too much like White Heather.  I was more than half ashamed of bothering them about the diamonds at such a moment, but it occurred to me that Amelia was probably right—­they would now have reached the end of the sum set apart for their Continental trip, and a little ready cash might be far from unwelcome.

I broached the subject delicately.  It was a fad of Lady Vandrift’s, I said.  She had set her heart upon those useless trinkets.  And she wouldn’t go without them.  She must and would have them.  But the curate was obdurate.  He threw Uncle Aubrey still in my teeth.  Three hundred?—­no, never!  A mother’s present; impossible, dear Jessie!  Jessie begged and prayed; she had grown really attached to Lady Vandrift, she said; but the curate wouldn’t hear of it.  I went up tentatively to four hundred.  He shook his head gloomily.  It wasn’t a question of money, he said.  It was a question of affection.  I saw it was no use trying that tack any longer.  I struck out a new line.  “These stones,” I said, “I think I ought to inform you, are really diamonds.  Sir Charles is certain of it.  Now, is it right for a man of your profession and position to be wearing a pair of big gems like those, worth several hundred pounds, as ordinary sleeve-links?  A woman?—­yes, I grant you.  But for a man, is it manly?  And you a cricketer!”