Here is my card.
Take that, anyhow. You need not come to any appointment. Come
when you will."
He took the card, and an earnest of my good-will.
"Think better of it and come," said I.
He shook his head doubtfully. "I will pay back your
half-crown with interest some day--such interest as will amaze
you," said he. "Anyhow, you will keep the secret? . . . . Don't
follow me."
He crossed the road and went into the darkness towards the
little steps under the archway leading into Essex Street, and I let
him go. And that was the last I ever saw of him.
Afterwards I had two letters from him asking me to send
bank-notes--not cheques--to certain addresses. I weighed the
matter over and took what I conceived to be the wisest course.
Once he called upon me when I was out. My urchin described him as
a very thin, dirty, and ragged man, with a dreadful cough. He left
no message. That was the finish of him so far as my story goes.
I wonder sometimes what has become of him. Was he an ingenious
monomaniac, or a fraudulent dealer in pebbles, or has he really
made diamonds as he asserted? The latter is just sufficiently
credible to make me think at times that I have missed the most
brilliant opportunity of my life. He may of course be dead, and
his diamonds carelessly thrown aside--one, I repeat, was almost as
big as my thumb.
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