postmark across the ten-cent stamp in the upper right-hand corner. The
imprint of the cancellation, faintly decipherable, showed that the
package had been mailed at the Madison Square substation at half-past
seven o'clock of the previous evening.

Mr. Harry Latham, president and active head of the H. Latham Company,
manufacturing jewelers in Fifth Avenue, found the letters and the
package on his desk when he entered his private office a few minutes
past nine o'clock. The simple fact that the package bore no return
address or identifying mark of any sort caused him to pick it up and
examine it, after which he shook it inquiringly. Then, with kindling
curiosity, he snipped the scarlet thread with a pair of silver
scissors, and unfolded the wrappings. Inside was a glazed paper box,
such as jewelers use, but still there was no mark, no printing, either
on top or bottom.

The cover of the box came off in Mr. Latham's hand, disclosing a bed
of white cotton. He removed the downy upper layer, and there--there,
nestling against the snowy background, blazed a single splendid
diamond, of six, perhaps seven, carats. Myriad colors played in its
blue-white depths, sparkling, flashing, dazzling in the subdued
light. Mr. Latham drew one long quick breath, and walked over to the
window to examine the stone in the full glare of day.

A minute or more passed, a minute of wonder, admiration, allurement,
but at last he ventured to lift the diamond from the box. It was
perfect, so far as he could see; perfect in cutting and color and
depth, prismatic, radiant, bewilderingly gorgeous. Its value? Even
he could not offer an opinion--only the appraisement of his expert
would be worth listening to on that point. But one thing he knew