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THE
ORANGE-YELLOW
DIAMOND
BY
J. S. FLETCHER
1921
CONTENTS
I THE PRETTY PAWNBROKER
II MRS. GOLDMARK'S EATING-HOUSE
III THE DEAD MAN
IV THE PLATINUM SOLITAIRE
V THE TWO LETTERS
VI THE SPANISH MANUSCRIPT
VII THE MEMBER OF PARLIAMENT
VIII THE INQUEST
IX WHOSE WERE THOSE RINGS?
X MELKY INTERVENES
XI THE BACK DOOR
XII THE FRIEND FROM PEEBLES
XIII THE CALL FOR HELP
XIV THE PRIVATE LABORATORY
XV CONFERENCE
XVI THE DETECTIVE CALLS
XVII WHAT THE LAMPS SHONE ON
XVIII MR. STUYVESANT GUYLER
XIX PURDIE STANDS FIRM
XX THE PARSLETT AFFAIR
XXI WHAT MANNER OF DEATH?
XXII MR. KILLICK GOES BACK
XXIII MR. KILLICK'S OPINION
XXIV THE ORANGE-YELLOW DIAMOND
XXV THE DEAD MAN'S PROPERTY
XXVI THE RAT
XXVII THE EMPTY HOUSE
XXVIII THE L500 BANK NOTE
XXIX MR. MORI YADA
XXX THE MORTUARY
XXXI THE MIRANDOLET THEORY
XXXII ONE O'CLOCK MIDNIGHT
XXXIII SECRET WORK
XXXIV BAFFLED
XXXV YADA TAKES CHARGE
XXXVI PILMANSEY'S TEA ROOMS
XXXVII CHANG LI
XXXVIII THE JEW AND THE JAP
XXXIX THE DIAMOND NECKLACE
THE ORANGE-YELLOW DIAMOND
CHAPTER ONE
THE PRETTY PAWNBROKER
On the southern edge of the populous parish of Paddington, in a
parallelogram bounded by Oxford and Cambridge Terrace on the south, Praed
Street on the north, and by Edgware Road on the east and Spring Street on
the west, lies an assemblage of mean streets, the drab dulness of which
forms a remarkable contrast to the pretentious architectural grandeurs of
Sussex Square and Lancaster Gate, close by. In these streets the observant
will always find all those evidences of depressing semi-poverty which are
more evident in London than in any other English city. The houses look as
if laughter was never heard within them. Where the window blinds are not
torn, they are dirty; the folk who come out of the doors wear anxious and
depressed faces. Such shops as are there are mainly kept for the sale of
food of poor quality: the taverns at the corners are destitute of
attraction or pretension. Whoever wanders into these streets finds their
sordid shabbiness communicating itself: he escapes, cast down, wondering
who the folk are who live in those grey, lifeless cages; what they do,
what they think; how life strikes them. Even the very sparrows which fight
in the gutters for garbage are less lively than London sparrows usually
are; as for the children who sit about the doorsteps, they look as if the
grass, the trees, the flowers, and the sunlight of the adjacent Kensington
Gardens were as far away as the Desert of Gobi. Within this slice of the
town, indeed, life is lived, as it were, in a stagnant backwash, which
nothing and nobody can stir.
In an upper room of one of the more respectable houses in one of the
somewhat superior streets of this neighbourhood, a young man stood looking
out of the window one November afternoon. It was then five o'clock, and
the darkness was coming: all day a gentle, never-ceasing rain had been
bringing the soot down from the dark skies upon the already dingy roofs.
It was a dismal and miserable prospect upon which the watcher looked out,
but not so miserable nor so dismal as the situation in which he just then
found himself. The mean street beneath him was not more empty of
cheerfulness than his pockets were empty of money and his stomach of food.
He had spent his last penny on the previous day: it, and two other
coppers, had gone on a mere mouthful of food and drink: since their
disappearance he had eaten nothing. And he was now growing faint with
hunger--and to add to his pains, some one, downstairs, was cooking
herrings. The smell of the frying-pan nearly drove him ravenous.
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