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An African Millionaire

Creator: Allen, Grant, 1848-1899
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"Certain of it," I replied, examining them. "No one can take me in, in the matter of diamonds. Why on earth should you doubt them?" "Because I've been talking to Mrs. O'Hagan, at the hotel, and she says there's a well-known trick just like that--she's read of it in a book. A swindler has two sets--one real, one false; and he makes you buy the false ones by showing you the real, and pretending he sells them as a special favour." "You needn't be alarmed," I answered. "I am a judge of diamonds." "I shan't be satisfied," Amelia murmured, "till Charles has seen them." We went up to the hotel. For the first time in her life I saw Amelia really nervous as I handed the stones to Charles to examine. Her doubt was contagious. I half feared, myself, he might break out into a deep monosyllabic interjection, losing his temper in haste, as he often does when things go wrong. But he looked at them with a smile, while I told him the price. "Eight hundred pounds less than their value," he answered, well satisfied.
Petty Troubles of Married Life, Second Part

PETTY TROUBLES OF MARRIED LIFE PART SECOND BY HONORE DE BALZAC PREFACE If, reader, you have grasped the intent of this book,--and infinite honor is done you by the supposition: the profoundest author does not always comprehend, I may say never comprehends, the different meanings of his book, nor its bearing, nor the good nor the harm it may do--if, then, you have bestowed some attention upon these little scenes of married life, you have perhaps noticed their color-- "What color?" some grocer will doubtless ask; "books are bound in
"You have no doubt of their reality?" I asked. "Not the slightest," he replied, gazing at them. "They are genuine stones, precisely the same in quality and type as Amelia's necklet." Amelia drew a sigh of relief. "I'll go upstairs," she said slowly, "and bring down my own for you both to compare with them." One minute later she rushed down again, breathless. Amelia is far from slim, and I never before knew her exert herself so actively. "Charles, Charles!" she cried, "do you know what dreadful thing has happened? Two of my own stones are gone. He's stolen a couple of diamonds from my necklet, and sold them back to me." She held out the rivière. It was all too true. Two gems were missing--and these two just fitted the empty places! A light broke in upon me. I clapped my hand to my head. "By Jove," I exclaimed, "the little curate is--Colonel Clay!" Charles clapped his own hand to his brow in turn. "And Jessie," he cried, "White Heather--that innocent little Scotchwoman! I often detected a familiar ring in her voice, in spite of the charming Highland accent. Jessie is--Madame Picardet!"