stroked the satin-skinned forearm, and said softly: "These are
not worthy of such a woman as Dolores. These are but the gauds of a
beautiful woman. To fit you, they should be the adornments of a
goddess!"

"Oh, then thy lips uttered truth!" she cried delightedly. She stooped
swiftly to him, twined her arms about his neck, and laid her warm cheek
to his. "Now I shall show thee treasures indeed, my John!"

She ran to the one chest yet unopened, and flung away the silk covering.
Here were the gems of the craftsman's art. Stones of unparalleled color
and size were in this chest; but their chief merit lay in their cunning
settings, their consummate delicacy of workmanship. Here the art
collector might find his El Dorado; in all the world such a collection
could scarcely be found in one place. Here were shrines and temples,
carved from single immense stones or pieces of jade; here was a woven
thing of gold and silver, in which the warp and woof lay close as
tapestry, portraying as no tapestry could portray it the fabled valley
of "Sinbad," in which the sands were gold, the sky silver, and the gems
were gems indeed.

"Is this to thy mind?" Dolores cried, tossing to him a golden ball which
by some amazing internal mechanism played fairy chimes as it whirled
through the air.

Her lips parted in flushed pleasure at the result of her display, for
John Pearse was smitten with the collector's fever. He missed her ball
through sheer inability to tear his eyes from the other treasures. And
as his brain began to grasp the stupendous truth, to more readily
estimate values, his eyes turned from the more gaudy works of art, and
noticed, for the first time clearly, the pricelessness of many greater
things of canvas and wood, ivory and glass, with which the apartment
abounded.

"Now thy heart craves my treasures, too, eh?" she chided, gliding to him
and laying a hand on his head. Yet she felt glad of his awakened
interest. It was merely another card she might yet have to play.

"Astounding!" he gasped. His gaze fastened upon a boule bric-a-brac
stand, on which stood an Aretine vase two feet high, of peerless form
and glaze. The ticking of the great Peter Hele clock drew his attention
to a work of ebony and ivory as scarcely could be believed as coming
from man's hands.

"Now thou'rt of a kind with thy fellows!" she cried in anger. "Look at
me! No, thy eyes will not deign to seek me now!"

Pearse snatched his eyes away, and answere