“The list you wanted to see,” said Mr. Majendie. “Mrs. Millett, my secretary, typed a new one. My own contained a good deal of technical detail which I judged less useful, for the purposes of recognition, than a more general description. I’ve omitted carat marks, weight, and so on, and you’ll see that in the case of some of the hard-stones and other materials whose names must be unfamiliar to a layman, I’ve added the colour. Rhodonite, for example—”

“Pink or red?” hazarded Nightingale.

“Ah, Mr. Nightingale, but permit me to doubt whether every constable in the Metropolitan Area has the elements of Greek. And what of obsidian and bowenite—not to mention the mutations made possible by the capacity of chalcedony for staining?”

That, thought Nightingale, would perhaps teach him not to show off. Constable. Elements of Greek. He ought to have remembered that Majendie had been sharpening his tongue for at least a quarter-century longer than he had.

“And here,” continued Mr. Majendie, “is my original list—so that you may compare them,” he ended, with an unmistakable twinkle of his eyes.

Nightingale couldn’t but smile back at this. He looked at the lists. They were beautifully neat, quite belying the mild confusion of their place of origin, and divided into sections, each classified. Parure of necklace, earrings, bracelets, in square cut and brilliant diamonds (Brazilian) and square cut emeralds (Siberian), gold set. Was that the wedding anniversary gift of Prince Sevastyan? Rivière—what was that?—of large brilliant diamonds, with earrings en suite, silver. Head ornament of brilliant and rose diamonds. Ruby, pearl and emerald brooch. Amethyst, topaz, turquoise, sapphire, tourmaline, opal, diamond, and again diamond; pendants, clips, rings, aigrettes, tiaras; the names of gems and every variety of ornament flashed in his imagination as he read. Gold cigarette box, sun-ray rib, cabochon sapphire thumb piece, 3½ in., mark H.W. Gold box, engine-turned, enamelled translucent royal blue and white, rose diamond trellis, coloured gold mounts, 6 in., mark M.P. Siberian jade cigarette case, yellow gold mounts, hinges set cabochon rubies and rose diamonds, 3¼ in., mark H.W.

“What are all these marks?” he asked, somewhat subdued.

“H.W. and M.P.? The workmaster’s initials. Henrik Wigstrom and Michael Perchin, in those cases. There are others.”

“Ah, Wigstrom—the one you studied with.”

Mr. Majendie said nothing, but he looked so pleased that Nightingale was touched. Perhaps he was unused to having a morsel of his babble retained. Nightingale returned to the fascinating paper. Of boxes and cigarette cases alone the Princess seemed to have kept enough in her scruffy room to stock a small shop; without counting seals, sealing wax holders, scent flacons, fans, miniature frames and other objects which his eye saw in a confused jumble.

“What made her bring these small things?” he asked. “Sentimental attachment?”