Irma’s eyes were as round as saucers.

“Mine?” she said, in a childish squeak.

“Yep,” I said.

She was staring at the stones, not the figures. Her open mouth was pink and pretty and wet and greedy. And then, just as I was enjoying my contempt for her, she did something that cut the ground out from under my feet.

“No, it is yours,” she said suddenly. “Three gems, for the three who saved my life. Do they measure any value compared to that?”

“Certainly not,” said Blankenhagen; and “My God, no,” said Tony.

They could afford to be noble. Whoever married Irma—and I figured they had an equal chance, she was ready to fall into the arms of any man who asked her—got all three stones. I felt old and wise and rather sad. She was corny, but she was a good kid. I think she really meant it—for about a minute and a half.

“Aw,” I said, “shucks. Forget it, Irma.”

“But I mean it!”

“Sure you do. But we can’t accept anything like that.”

“But—but what can I do with it?” Irma asked helplessly.

“The National museum, I think,” said Blankenhagen. “It is the richest in Germany; it will offer a fair price.”

“The Met, or some foreign museum, might offer more,” said Tony. Irma looked at him.

“No,” said Blankenhagen firmly. Irma looked at him. “It is fitting that such a treasure should remain in Germany.”

“Hmmm,” I said. “Tell you one thing. If I were you, I’d take those jewels out and sell them separately. Nobody can afford to buy the shrine as it is; and the jewels will attract every crook on two continents. You can substitute paste copies without affecting the beauty of the workmanship; and isn’t that the important thing?”

“Are you always right?” asked Blankenhagen, looking at me severely. “You are too clever. That is a very annoying quality. How did you know the shrine was here, in this room?”

“Oh, well,” I said modestly, “that was easy. You told Irma about the arsenic, and Burckhardt’s murder? But don’t you see, that was the clue we were looking for. Many of the details will never be known; but I think I can reconstruct the outlines of the story now.

“Konstanze was young, seventeen or eighteen, when Burckhardt married her and brought her here. Yet even then she must have been deeply involved in the witch cult; they started young, usually at puberty. It isn’t surprising that she should have learned to despise her oafish husband. Maybe she turned to Nicolas because he was available, and corrupted him. Maybe he didn’t need corrupting. A man of his ability must have hated the social system that labeled him inferior, and the ignorant clod who exemplified that system.

“Anyhow, I’m sure the two became lovers before the Revolt broke out. Konstanze had been poisoning her husband for some time; it takes several months for arsenic to work its way through the body and show up in the hair and nails. And there were all those references to Burckhardt’s queasy stomach, remember?