"They have hung about the necks of crowned
people, good people--and wicked people. Perhaps they have brought good
fortune--as the Magyar chieftain said they would. Who knows? You, my
dear--you are a girl with a sensible head on a pair of straight
shoulders--tell me, do you care more for the superstition of this
necklace--than for the money I will pay you for it--say, fifteen
thousand dollars?"
Beryl stood up so suddenly that her chair tumbled backward, making a
crashing noise in the subdued stillness of the little room.
"Are you joking?" she asked in a queer, choky voice.
"No, he is not joking. And I told you he is known the world over as an
honest collector," broke in Cornelius Allendyce.
"Fifteen--thousand--dollars! Why, that's an _awfully_ big amount, isn't
it?" Beryl appealed helplessly to the lawyer. "Why--of _course_ I'll
sell it--if you're sure it's what you think it is. I--I don't want--"
The little collector handed her one of the beads and a strong magnifying
glass. "Look!" he commanded. Beryl obeyed. There, quite plainly, she
made out a tiny crown.
She laughed hysterically. "I see it! I thought that was a scratch.
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