He looked at me and laughed.  “Will nothing convince you?” he cried.  “They have been examined and tested by half a dozen jewellers, and we know them to be paste.  It wouldn’t be right of me to sell them to you under false pretences, however unwilling on my side.  I couldn’t do it.”

“Well, then,” I said, going up a bit in my bids to meet him, “I’ll put it like this.  These gems are paste.  But Lady Vandrift has an unconquerable and unaccountable desire to possess them.  Money doesn’t matter to her.  She is a friend of your wife’s.  As a personal favour, won’t you sell them to her for a thousand?”

He shook his head.  “It would be wrong,” he said,—­“I might even add, criminal.”

“But we take all risk,” I cried.

He was absolute adamant.  “As a clergyman,” he answered, “I feel I cannot do it.”

“Will you try, Mrs. Brabazon?” I asked.

The pretty little Scotchwoman leant over and whispered.  She coaxed and cajoled him.  Her ways were winsome.  I couldn’t hear what she said, but he seemed to give way at last.  “I should love Lady Vandrift to have them,” she murmured, turning to me.  “She is such a dear!” And she took out the links from her husband’s cuffs and handed them across to me.

“How much?” I asked.

“Two thousand?” she answered, interrogatively.  It was a big rise, all at once; but such are the ways of women.

“Done!” I replied.  “Do you consent?”

The curate looked up as if ashamed of himself.

“I consent,” he said slowly, “since Jessie wishes it.  But as a clergyman, and to prevent any future misunderstanding, I should like you to give me a statement in writing that you buy them on my distinct and positive declaration that they are made of paste—­old Oriental paste—­not genuine stones, and that I do not claim any other qualities for them.”

I popped the gems into my purse, well pleased.

“Certainly,” I said, pulling out a paper.  Charles, with his unerring business instinct, had anticipated the request, and given me a signed agreement to that effect.

“You will take a cheque?” I inquired.

He hesitated.

“Notes of the Bank of France would suit me better,” he answered.

“Very well,” I replied.  “I will go out and get them.”

How very unsuspicious some people are!  He allowed me to go off—­with the stones in my pocket!

Sir Charles had given me a blank cheque, not exceeding two thousand five hundred pounds.  I took it to our agents and cashed it for notes of the Bank of France.  The curate clasped them with pleasure.  And right glad I was to go back to Lucerne that night, feeling that I had got those diamonds into my hands for about a thousand pounds under their real value!

At Lucerne railway station Amelia met me.  She was positively agitated.

“Have you bought them, Seymour?” she asked.