“I must beg your pardon for keeping you waiting,” he said apologetically.  “As your host I should have been here first.  That would have been the case had I not been detained at the last moment by an old friend.  Pray forgive me!”

I consented to do so, and we entered the restaurant together.

I discovered that he had already engaged a table, arranged the menu, and bespoken the wines.  We accordingly sat down, and the strangest meal of which I had ever partaken commenced.  Less than a week before, the man sitting in front of me had endeavoured to bring about my destruction; now he was my host, and to all outward appearances my friend as well.  I found him a most agreeable companion, a witty conversationalist, and a born raconteur.  He seemed to have visited every part of the known globe; had been a sailor, a revolutionist in South America, a blackbirder in the Pacific, had seen something of what he called the “Pig-tail trade” to Borneo, some very queer life in India, that is to say, in the comparatively unknown native states and had come within an ace of having been shot by the French during the war in Madagascar.

“In point of fact,” he said, “I may say that I have travelled from Dan to Beersheba, and, until I struck this present vein of good fortune, had found all barren.  Some day, if I can summon up sufficient courage, I shall fit out an expedition and return to the place whence the stones came, and get some more, but not just at present.  Events have been a little too exciting there of late to let us consider it a healthy country.  By the way, have you heard from our friend, Kitwater, yet?”

“I have,” I answered, “and his reply is by no means satisfactory.”

“I understand you to mean that he will not entertain my offer?”

I nodded my head.

“He must have ‘all or nothing,’ he declares.  That is the wording of the telegram I received.”

“Well, he knows his own affairs best.  The difference is a large one, and will materially affect his income.  Will you take Creme de Minthe—­Kuemmel or Cognac?”

“Cognac, thank you,” I replied, and that was the end of the matter.

During the remainder of the evening not another word was said upon the subject.  We chatted upon a variety of topics, but neither the matter of the precious stones nor even Kitwater’s name was once mentioned.  I could not help fancying, however, that the man was considerably disappointed at the non-acceptance of his preposterous offer.  He had made a move on the board, and had lost it.  I knew him well enough, however, by this time to feel sure that he by no means despaired yet of winning the game.  Men of Gideon Hayle’s stamp are hard to beat.

“Now,” he said, when we had smoked our cigarettes, and after he had consulted his watch, “The night is still young.  What do you say if we pay a visit to a theatre—­the Hippodrome, for instance.  We might wile away an hour there very pleasantly if you feel so disposed.”