“Then I removed the jewels, took them down to a dealer in paste gems and duplicated them as closely as I could.  I had a hard time getting a good copy of this big rose-diamond.”

He picked it from the heap and held it up between his fingers.

“It’s a beauty, isn’t it?” he asked.

M. Pigot smiled a dry smile.

“It is the Mazarin,” he said, “and is worth three million francs.  There is a copy of it at the Louvre.”

“So that’s true, is it?” I asked.  “Crochard told us the story.”

“It is unquestionably true,” said M. Pigot.  “It is not a secret—­it is merely something which every one has forgotten.”

“Well,” continued Godfrey, “after I got the duplicates, I rolled them up in the cotton packets, and placed them back in the drawer, being careful to put the Mazarin at the bottom, where I had found it.”

“It was lucky you thought of that,” I said, “or Crochard would have suspected something.”

Godfrey looked at me with a smile.

“My dear Lester,” he said, “he knew that the game was up the instant he opened the first packet.  Do you suppose he would be deceived?  Not by the best reproduction ever made!”

And then I remembered the slow flush which had crept into Crochard’s cheeks as he opened that first packet!

“I didn’t expect to deceive him,” Godfrey explained.  “I just wanted to give him a little surprise.  And to think I wasn’t there to see it!”

“But if he knew they were imitations,” I protested, “why should he go to all that trouble to steal them?”

“That is what puzzled me last night,” said Godfrey; “and, for that matter, it puzzles me yet.”

“Maybe he’s got the real stones, after all,” suggested Grady, who had been listening to all this with incredulous countenance.  “The story sounds fishy to me.  Maybe these are the imitations.”

M. Pigot came forward and picked up the Mazarin and looked at it.

“This one, at least, is real,” he said, after a moment.  “And I have no doubt the others are,” he added, turning them over with his finger.

Grady, still incredulous, picked up one of the brilliants, went to the window, and drew it down the pane.  It left a deep scratch behind it.

“Yes,” he admitted reluctantly, “I guess they’re diamonds, all right,” and he sat down again.

“And now, gentlemen,” continued Godfrey, who had watched Grady’s byplay with a tolerant smile, “I am ready to turn these diamonds over to you.  I should like you to count them, and give me a receipt for them.”

“And then, of course, you will write the story,” sneered Grady, “and give yourself all the credit.”

“Well,” asked Godfrey, looking at him, “do you think you deserve any?” And Grady could only crimson and keep silent.  “As for the story, it is already written.  It will be on the streets in ten minutes—­and it will create a sensation.  Please count the diamonds.  You will find two hundred and ten of them.”