“Yes, I should say you’re right, Markel,” he agreed judicially.  “He ought to know better than to touch this.  It—­it would be too hard to dispose of.”

“I’m not worrying,” declared Markel importantly.

“No,” said Jimmie Dale.  “Two hundred and ten thousand, you said.  Any special—­er—­significance to the occasion, if the question’s not impertinent?  Birthday, wedding anniversary—­or something like that?”

“No, nothing like that!” Markel grinned, winked secretively, and rubbed his hands together.  “I’m feeling good, that’s all—­I’m going to make the killing of my life to-morrow.”

“Oh!” said Jimmie Dale.

Markel turned to Carruthers.  “I’ll let you in on that, too, Carruthers, in a day or two, if you’ll send a reporter around—­financial man, you know.  It’ll be worth your while.  And now, how about this?  What do you say to a little article and the photos next Sunday?”

There was a slight hint of rising colour in Carruthers’ face.

“If you’ll send them to the society editor, I’ve no doubt he’ll be able to use them,” he said brusquely.

“Right!” said Markel, and coughed, and patted Carruthers’ shoulder patronisingly again.  “I’ll just do that little thing.”  He picked up the necklace, dangled it till it flashed and flashed again under the light, then restored it very ostentatiously to its case, and the case to his pocket.  “Thanks awfully, Carruthers,” he said, as he rose from his chair.  “See you again, Dale.  Good-night!”

Carruthers glared at the door as it closed behind the man.

“Say it!” prodded Jimmie Dale sweetly.  “Don’t feel restrained because you are a guest—­I absolve you in advance.”

“Rotter!” said Carruthers.

“Well,” said Jimmie Dale softly.  “You see—­Carruthers?”

Carruthers’ match crackled savagely as he lighted a cigar.

“Yes, I see,” he growled.  “But I don’t see—­you’ll pardon my saying so—­how vulgarity like that ever acquired membership in the St. James Club.”

“Carruthers,” said Jimmie Dale plaintively, “you ought to know better than that.  You know, to begin with, since it seems he has advertised with you, that he runs some sort of brokerage business in Boston.  He’s taken a summer home up here on Long Island, and some misguided chap put him on the club’s visitor’s list.  His card will not be renewed.  Sleek customer, isn’t he?  Trifle familiar—­I was only introduced to him last night.”

Carruthers grunted, broke his burned match into pieces, and began to toss the pieces into an ash tray.

Jimmie Dale became absorbed in an inspection of his hands—­those wonderful hands with long, slim, tapering fingers, whose clean, pink flesh masked a strength and power that was like to a steel vise.

Jimmie Dale looked up.  “Going to print a nice little story for him about the ’costliest and most beautiful necklace in America’?” he inquired innocently.