. Arthur Ulster. You will deliver it to me, if
you please."

"Monsieur!" exclaimed the man, lifting his hands, and surveying me with
the widest eyes I ever saw. "A diamond! In my possession! So immense a
thing! It is impossible. I have not even seen one of the kind. It is a
mistake. Jacques Noailles, the vender of jewels _en gros_, second door
below, must be the man. One should perceive that my business is with
arms, not diamonds. I have it not; it would ruin me."

Here he paused for a reply, but, meeting none, resumed. "M. Arthur
Ulster!--I have heard of no such person. I never spoke with an
Englishman. Bah! I detest them! I have no dealings with them. I repeat,
I have not your jewel. Do you wish anything more of me?"

His vehemence only convinced me of the truth of my suspicions.

"These heroics are out of place," I answered. "I demand the article in
question."

"Monsieur doubts me?" he asked, with a rueful face,--"questions my
word, which is incontrovertible?" Here he clapped his hand upon a
_couteau-de-chasse_ lying near, but, appearing to think better of it,
drew himself up, and, with a shower of nods flung at me, added, "I deny
your accusation!" I had not accused him.

"You are at too much pains to convict yourself. I charge you with
nothing," I said. "But this diamond must be surrendered."

"Monsieur is mad!" he exclaimed, "mad! he dreams! Do I look like one who
possesses such a trophy? Does my shop resemble a mine? Look about!
See! All that is here would not bring a hundredth part of its price. I
beseech Monsieur to believe me; he has mistaken the number, or has been
misinformed."

"We waste words. I know this diamond is here, as well as a costly
chain"--

"On my soul, on my life, on my honor," he cried, clasping his hands and
turning up his eyes, "there is here nothing of the kind. I do not deal
in gems. A little silk, a few weapons, a curiosity, a nicknack, comprise
my stock. I have not the diamond. I do not know the thing. I am poor. I
am honest. Suspicion destroys me!"

"As you will find, should I be longer troubled by your denials."

He was inflexible, and, having exhausted every artifice of innocence,
wiped the tears from his eyes,--oh, these French! life is their
theatre,--and remained quiet. It was getting dark. There was no gas in
the place; but in the pause a distant street-lamp swung its light dimly
round.

"Unless one desires to purchase, allow me to say that it is my hour for
closing