In ten years, though at times having stones and precious
metal aggregating large amounts deposited with him by his customers, Max
Diestricht had never lost so much as the gold filings. There was a
queer smile on Jimmie Dale's lips now. The knot in the tenth board
was significant! Max Diestricht was scrupulously honest, a genius in
originality and conception of design, a master in the perfection and
delicacy of his finished work--he had been commissioned to design and
set the Ross-Logan necklace.
The brain works quickly. All this and more had flashed almost
instantaneously through Jimmie Dale's mind. His eyes fell to the letter
again, and he read on. Halfway through, a sudden whiteness blanched
his face, and, following it, a surging tide of red that mounted to his
temples. It dazed him; it seemed to rob him for the moment of the
power of coherent thought. He was wrong; he had not read aright. It was
incredible, dare-devil beyond belief--and yet in its very audacity lay
success. He finished the letter, read it once more--and his fingers
mechanically began to tear it into little shreds. His brain was in a
whirl, a vortex of conflicting emotions. Had Whitey Mack and Lannigan
left Bristol Bob's yet? Where were they now? Was there time for--this?
He was staring at the little torn scraps of paper in his hand. He thrust
them suddenly into his pocket, and jerked out his watch.
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