no longer from being worshipped, he could rest neither by night nor day—­he had lost his greatest treasure.  When he could no longer endure this state of wretchedness he stole out of the temple one fine night unknown to anyone, and set out on his travels in search of the missing Diamond.  Was it simple accident or occult knowledge, that directed his wanderings after a time to the shop of a London curiosity dealer, where I saw him, fell in love with him, and bought him?  I know not:  I only know that he and his darling Diamond were at last re-united, and here they have remained ever since.  You smile as if I had been relating a pleasant fable.  But tell me, if you can, how it happens that in the forehead of yonder idol there is a small cavity lined with gold into which the Diamond fits with the most exact nicety.  That cavity was there when I bought the idol and has in no way been altered since.  The shape of the Diamond, as you have seen for yourself, is rather peculiar.  Is it therefore possible that mere accident can be at the bottom of such a coincidence?  Is not my theory of the Wandering Idol much more probable as well as far more poetical?  You smile again.  You English are the greatest sceptics in the world.  But it is time to go.  We have seen all there is to be seen, and the temperature of this place will not benefit my rheumatism.”

So the lamp was put out and Idol and Diamond were left to darkness and solitude.  In the vaulted room, at the entrance to the winding way that led to the cavern, Ducie’s eyes were again bandaged.  Then up the twenty-two stone stairs, and so into the carpeted room above, where was the scent of pot-pourri.  From this room they came, by many passages and flights of stairs, back to the smoking-room, where Ducie’s bandage was removed.  One last pipe, a little desultory conversation, and then bed.

M. Platzoff being out of the way for an hour or two next afternoon, Captain Ducie contrived to pay a surreptitious visit to his host’s private study.  On the carpet he found one of the two paper pellets which he had dropped from his fingers the previous evening.  There, too, was the same faint, sickly smell that had filled his nostrils when the handkerchief was over his eyes, which he now traced to a huge china jar in one corner, filled with the dried leaves of flowers gathered long summers before.

CHAPTER XVI.

Janet’s return.

“There he is! there is dear Major Strickland!”

The tidal train was just steaming into London Bridge station on a certain spring evening as the above words were spoken.  From a window of one of the carriages a bright young face was peering eagerly, a face which lighted up with a smile of rare sweetness the moment Major Strickland’s soldierly figure came into view.  A tiny gloved hand was held out as a signal, the Major’s eye was caught, the train came to a stand, and next moment Janet Hope was on the platform with her arms round the old soldier’s neck and her lips held up for a kiss.