His fingers in their
rapacious haste could not at first manipulate the catch, and then
finally, with the case open, he bent over the table feverishly. The
light reflected back as from some living mass of crimson fire, now
shading darkly, now glowing into wondrous, colourful transparency as he
moved the case to and fro with jerky motions of his hands--and he was
babbling, crooning to himself like one possessed.
"Ah, the little beauties! Ah, the pretty little things! Yes, yes; these
are the ones! This is the great Aracon--see, see, the six-sided prism
terminated by the six-sided pyramid. But it must be cut--it must be cut
to sell it, eh? Ah, it is too bad--too bad! And this, this one here, I
know them all, this is--"
But his sentence was never finished--it was Jimmie Dale, on his feet
now, leaning against the jamb of the door, his automatic covering the
two men at the table, who spoke.
"Quite so, Isaac," he said coolly; "you know them all! Quite so,
Isaac--but be good enough to DROP them!"
The case fell from Isaac's hand, the flush on his cheeks died to a
sickly pallor, and, his mouth half open, he stood like a man turned to
stone, his hands with curved fingers still outstretched over the table,
over the crimson gems that, spilled from the case, lay scattered now
on the tabletop. Burton neither spoke nor moved--a little whiter, the
misery in his face almost apathetic, he moistened his lips with the tip
of his tongue.
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