With his marvellous business instinct, Charles seemed to divine my thought, for he turned round to me sharply.  “Look here, Sey,” he remarked, in an acidulous tone, “recollect, you’re my brother-in-law.  You are also my secretary.  The eyes of London will be upon us to-morrow.  If you were to sell out, and operators got to know of it, they’d suspect there was something up, and the company would suffer for it.  Of course, you can do what you like with your own property.  I can’t interfere with that.  I do not dictate to you.  But as Chairman of the Golcondas, I am bound to see that the interests of widows and orphans whose All is invested with me should not suffer at this crisis.”  His voice seemed to falter.  “Therefore, though I don’t like to threaten,” he went on, “I am bound to give you warning:  if you sell out those shares of yours, openly or secretly, you are no longer my secretary; you receive forthwith six months’ salary in lieu of notice, and—­you leave me instantly.”

“Very well, Charles,” I answered, in a submissive voice; though I debated with myself for a moment whether it would be best to stick to the ready money and quit the sinking ship, or to hold fast by my friend, and back Charles’s luck against the Professor’s science.  After a short, sharp struggle within my own mind, I am proud to say, friendship and gratitude won.  I felt sure that, whether diamonds went up or down, Charles Vandrift was the sort of man who would come to the top in the end in spite of everything.  And I decided to stand by him!

I slept little that night, however.  My mind was a whirlwind.  At breakfast Charles also looked haggard and moody.  He ordered the carriage early, and drove straight into the City.

There was a block in Cheapside.  Charles, impatient and nervous, jumped out and walked.  I walked beside him.  Near Wood Street a man we knew casually stopped us.

“I think I ought to mention to you,” he said, confidentially, “that I have it on the very best authority that Schleiermacher, of Jena—­”

“Thank you,” Charles said, crustily, “I know that tale, and—­there’s not a word of truth in it.”

He brushed on in haste.  A yard or two farther a broker paused in front of us.

“Halloa, Sir Charles!” he called out, in a bantering tone.  “What’s all this about diamonds?  Where are Cloetedorps to-day?  Is it Golconda, or Queer Street?”

Charles drew himself up very stiff.  “I fail to understand you,” he answered, with dignity.

“Why, you were there yourself,” the man cried.  “Last night at Sir Adolphus’s!  Oh yes, it’s all over the place; Schleiermacher of Jena has succeeded in making the most perfect diamonds—­for sixpence apiece—­as good as real—­and South Africa’s ancient history.  In less than six weeks Kimberley, they say, will be a howling desert.  Every costermonger in Whitechapel will wear genuine Koh-i-noors for buttons on his coat; every girl in Bermondsey will sport a rivière like Lady Vandrift’s to her favourite music-hall.  There’s a slump in Golcondas.  Sly, sly, I can see; but we know all about it!”