ul Hamid of Turkey," he
replied; "but at present they belong to me!" He laughed grimly.

Inwardly I wondered by what means the priceless gems had fallen into
his hands. He read my thoughts at once, for he said:

"You are curious, of course, as to how I became possessed of them.
Naturally. Well, Hargreave, it's a very funny story and concerns a
real good fellow and, incidentally, a very pretty girl. Take a cigar,
sit down, and I'll tell you frankly all about it--only, of course, not
a word of the facts will ever pass your lips--not to Lola, or to
anybody else. Your lips are sealed."

"I promise," I said, selecting one of his choice cigars and lighting
it, my curiosity aroused.

"Then listen," he said, "and I'll tell you the whole facts, as far as
I've been able to gather them."

What he recounted was certainly romantic, though a little involved,
for he was not a very good _raconteur_. However, in setting down this
curious story--a story which shows that he was not altogether bad, and
was a sportsman after all--I have rearranged his words in narrative
form, so that readers of these curious adventures may fully
understand.

* * * * *

"How horribly glum you are to-night, dear! What's the matter? Are you
sad that we should meet here--in Paris?" asked a pretty girl.

"Glum!" echoed the smooth-haired young man in the perfectly fitting
dinner-jacket and black tie. "I really didn't know that I looked
glum," and then, straightening himself, he looked across the _table a
deux_ in the gay Restaurant Volnay at the handsome, dark-haired,
exquisitely dressed girl who sat before him with her elbows on the
table.

"Yes, you really are jolly glum, my dear Old Thing. You looked a
moment ago as serious as though you were going to a funeral," declared
the girl. "The war is over, you are prospering immensely--so what on
earth causes you to worry?"

"I'm not worrying, dearest, I assure you," he replied with a forced
smile, but her keen woman's intuition told her that her lover was not
himself, and that his mind was full of some very keen anxiety.

Charles Otley had taken her to a most amusing play at the
Palais-Royal, a comedy which had kept the house in roars of laughter
all the evening, and now, as they sat at supper, she saw that his
spirits had fallen to a very low ebb. This puzzled her greatly.

Peggy Urquhart, daughter of Sir Polworth Urquhart, of the Colonial
Service, who until the Armist