Overbeck came to dinner in morning clothes, as he had parted somehow with his heavy luggage, and I noticed that he had a curious stone, unknown to me, mounted as a pin in his cravat. I asked what it was. “A black opal,” was the answer. I had lately been hearing all sorts of tales about the bad luck which opals are supposed to bring. White opals he admitted were known to be unlucky, but the black opal, on the contrary, was the luckiest of stones. He insisted that I must buy one, and promised to call the next morning and go with me to hunt for one. We spent a merry evening; in the discussion of the happenings of nine years there was much to ask and much to tell, for we had all three led pretty busy lives in the interval, and it was late when we separated, wondering over the chance that had so strangely brought us together again. The following morning Overbeck turned up, quite determined that I must go and buy a black opal, as to which my enthusiasm had had time to wane during the night; however, he would take no denial, and so off we went to my old friend, Mr. Phillips, in Cockspur Street, the man who was really the first to introduce the artistic feeling of the sixteenth century into the modern jewellers’ craft. He was a man of the most consummate taste and culture, qualities repeated with additional intensity in his distinguished son, Sir Claude, the great critic, the accuracy of whose judgment and historical knowledge in all that concerns the fine arts is undisputed. I knew that the best chance of finding anything a little out of the way would be in Mr. Phillips’ hands, and so it proved to be, for he at once showed me the gem that I wanted, mounted as a pin with tiny sparks of diamonds round it. He told me that he had shown it to the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Edinburgh; both admired its beauty, but neither of them would buy it, on account of the evil reputation of the white opal. It was a strange, weird stone, with a mysterious spark of fire in the centre, which seemed to gleam fitfully, almost capriciously. Overbeck looked at it for a moment, trembling with excitement, and then hissed in my ear: “Buy it! Buy it! It surely brings you luck.” I laughed at his eagerness, but I bought the pin for its beauty’s sake. As we left the shop Overbeck, who was greatly excited, stopped on the threshold, and said: “In ten days you’ll get a letter, mark my words; in ten days, more or less.” We parted in Cockspur Street and he went abroad that evening. I went home, delighted with my pretty new toy, and thought nothing more about the famous letter which I was to receive, when on the evening of the 9th of May, exactly ten days from the visit to Mr. Phillips, I received the following note: “10, Downing Street, Whitehall. May 9th, —74. “DEAR MR. MITFORD, “If you like to become Secretary to the Board of Works I shall have pleasure in appointing you. “Faithfully yours,