“I did not rob them of the stones,” he said, not in the least offended by the bluntness of my speech.  “It is plain that you do not know how we obtained them.  Perhaps it’s as well that you should not, for there’s more behind, and you’d go and get them.  No!  We obtained them honestly enough at a certain place, and I was appointed to carry them.  For this reason I secured them in a belt about my waist.  That night the Chinese came down upon us and made us prisoners.  They murdered our two native servants, blinded Kitwater, and cut out Codd’s tongue.  I alone managed to effect my escape.  Leaving my two companions for dead, I managed to get away into the jungle.  Good Heavens! man, you can’t imagine what I suffered after that.”

I looked at him and saw that his face had grown pale at the mere recollection of his experiences.

“At last I reached the British outpost of Nampoung, on the Burmah-Chinese border, where the officers took me in and played the part of the good Samaritan.  When I was well enough to travel, I made my way down to Rangoon, where, still believing my late companions to be dead, I shipped for England.”

“As Mr. George Bertram,” I said quietly.  “Why under an assumed name when, according to your story, you had nothing to fear?”

“Because I had good and sufficient reason for so doing,” he replied.  “You must remember that I had a quarter of a million’s worth of precious stones in my possession, and, well, to put it bluntly, up to that time I had been living what you might call a make-shift sort of life.  For the future I told myself I was going to be a rich man.  That being so I wanted to start with a clean sheet.  You can scarcely blame me!”

I did not answer him on this point, but continued my cross-examination.

“You reached London, and sold some of the stones there, later on you disposed of some more in Amsterdam.  Why did you refuse the dealers your name and address?”

Once more he was quite equal to the occasion.

“Because if I had told them, everybody would have got to know it, and, to be perfectly frank with you, I could not feel quite certain that Kitwater and Codd were really dead.”

“By that I am to presume that you intended if possible to swindle them out of their share?” I asked, not a little surprised by his admission.

“Once more, to be quite frank with you, I did.  I have no desire to be rude, but I rather fancy you would have done the same had you been similarly situated.  I never was much of a success in the moral business.”

I could well believe this, but I did not tell him so.

“When did you first become aware that they were in London?”

“On the day that they landed,” he answered.  “I watched every ship that came in from Rangoon, and at last had the doubtful satisfaction of seeing my two old friends pass out of the dock-gates.  Poor beggars, they had indeed had a hard time of it.”