It must have been a strange spectacle—­so strange that it made a lasting impression on the least imaginative mind of the three, for he tried in his rude way to reproduce it on that Cornish beach after the lapse of thirty long years.  He threw bits of rock on the sand to indicate the positions in which they had sat.  From his description Charles pictured the scene adequately enough:  the violet-black beach, exhaling sulphuric vapours, the yellow-grey volcanic rocks, the gurgling ebullitions of a geyser throwing off volumes of smoke high above them, and the faces of the three men (ruddy in the fire-glow, white in the moonlight) intent on the division of the heap of dull stones scattered on a flat rock between them.  Thalassa remembered all these things; he remembered also how startled they were, the three of them, at the unexpected sound of a kind of throaty chuckle near by, and turned in affright to see a large bird regarding them from the shadow of the rocks—­a sea bird with rounded wings, light-coloured plumage, and curiously staring eyes above a yellow beak.  When it saw it was observed it vanished swiftly seaward in noiseless flight.

The division, commenced good-humouredly enough, soon developed the elements of a gamble between Robert Turold and Remington.  They forgot Thalassa’s existence as they argued and disputed over the allotment of certain stones.  The foot or so of flat rock became the circumference of their thoughts, ambitions, and passions—­their world for the time being.  In that sordid drama of greed Thalassa seemed to have comported himself with greater dignity than his two superiors by birth and education.  He even took it upon himself to reason with them on their folly.  Perhaps he knew from his own seamy experience of life what such things developed into.  At all events, he urged his companions to defer the division until they returned to civilization and could get the spoils appraised by eyes expert in the knowledge of precious stones.  But they would not listen, so, not liking the look of things, he withdrew a little distance off and watched them, leaning against a rock.  That was his tacit admission (so Charles interpreted this action) that he was on Robert Turold’s side, and felt that his own interests were identical with those of the master mind.  The two, left to themselves, wrangled more fiercely than ever.  There were unpleasant taunts and mutual revilings.  The listener by the rock learnt definitely what he had previously suspected—­that there was bitter blood and bad feeling between the two men, buried for a time, but now revived with a savageness which revealed the hollowness of their supposed reconciliation.  It was about a girl, some girl in England with whom they had both been in love.  Thalassa gathered that Remington had left England as the favoured suitor.  He had (in Thalassa’s words) “cut Turold out.”

Charles Turold could not forbear a faint exclamation of astonishment.  His brain reeled in trying to imagine the austere figure of Robert Turold squabbling over a girl and some diamonds on a lonely island in the South Pacific.  He was too amazed at the moment to see the implications of this part of the story.