The latter is just sufficiently credible to make me think at times that I have missed the most brilliant opportunity of my life.  He may of course be dead, and his diamonds carelessly thrown aside—­one, I repeat, was almost as big as my thumb.  Or he may be still wandering about trying to sell the things.  It is just possible he may yet emerge upon society, and, passing athwart my heavens in the serene altitude sacred to the wealthy and the well-advertised, reproach me silently for my want of enterprise.  I sometimes think I might at least have risked five pounds.

AEPYORNIS ISLAND

The man with the scarred face leant over the table and looked at my bundle.

“Orchids?” he asked.

“A few,” I said.

“Cypripediums,” he said.

“Chiefly,” said I.

“Anything new?  I thought not. I did these islands twenty-five—­twenty-seven years ago.  If you find anything new here—­well it’s brand new.  I didn’t leave much.”

“I’m not a collector,” said I.

“I was young then,” he went on.  “Lord! how I used to fly round.”  He seemed to take my measure.  “I was in the East Indies two years, and in Brazil seven.  Then I went to Madagascar.”

“I know a few explorers by name,” I Said, anticipating a yarn.  “Whom did you collect for?”

“Dawsons.  I wonder if you’ve heard the name of Butcher ever?”

“Butcher—­Butcher?” The name seemed vaguely present in my memory; then I recalled Butcher v. Dawson.  “Why!” said I, “you are the man who sued them for four years’ salary—­got cast away on a desert island ...”

“Your servant,” said the man with the scar, bowing.  “Funny case, wasn’t it?  Here was me, making a little fortune on that island, doing nothing for it neither, and them quite unable to give me notice.  It often used to amuse me thinking over it while I was there.  I did calculations of it—­big—­all over the blessed atoll in ornamental figuring.”

“How did it happen?” said I.  “I don’t rightly remember the case.”

“Well....  You’ve heard of the Aepyornis?”

“Rather.  Andrews was telling me of a new species he was working on only a month or so ago.  Just before I sailed.  They’ve got a thigh bone, it seems, nearly a yard long.  Monster the thing must have been!”

“I believe you,” said the man with the scar.  “It was a monster.  Sinbad’s roc was just a legend of ’em.  But when did they find these bones?”

“Three or four years ago—­’91, I fancy.  Why?”

“Why?  Because I found ’em—­Lord!—­it’s nearly twenty years ago.  If Dawsons hadn’t been silly about that salary they might have made a perfect ring in ’em.... I couldn’t help the infernal boat going adrift.”

He paused, “I suppose it’s the same place.  A kind of swamp about ninety miles north of Antananarivo.  Do you happen to know?  You have to go to it along the coast by boats.  You don’t happen to remember, perhaps?”