I believe it is not necessary for me to state how a chamois-skin bag containing one hundred and sixty-two diamonds came into my hands on the evening of May 14th. That it did come into my possession was enough for me. I never before thought that the possession of diamonds could make a woman so perfectly miserable. When I was a young girl in Necropolis City I used to think to own a diamond--even one small one--would be just about the acme of human joy. But Necropolis City is a good way behind me now, and I have found that the owning of a handful of them can be about the most wearing form of misery. I suppose there are fearless, upright people in the world who would have taken those diamonds straight back to the police station and braved public opinion. It would have been better to have had your word doubted, to be tried for a thief, put in jail, and probably complicated the diplomatic relations between England and the United States, than to conceal in your domicile one hundred and sixty-two precious stones that didn’t belong to you. I hope every one understands--and I’m sure every one does who knows me--that I did not want to keep the miserable things. What good did they do me, anyway, locked up in my jewel-box, in the upper right-hand bureau drawer? We knew no peace from that tragic evening when Major and Mrs. Thatcher dined with us. First we tried to think of ways of getting rid of them--of the diamonds, I mean. Cassius, who’s just a simple, uncomplicated man, wanted to take them right to the nearest police station and hand them in. I soon showed him the madness of _that_. Was there a soul in London who would have believed our story? Wouldn’t the American ambassador himself have had to bow his crested head and tame his heart of fire, and admit it was about the fishiest tale he had ever heard? It would have ruined us forever. Even if Cassius hadn’t been deposed from his place as the head of the English branch of the Colonial Box, Tub, and Cordage Company (Ltd), of Chicago and St. Louis, who would have known me? The trail of the diamonds would have been over us forever. Lady Sara Gyves would have gone round saying she always thought I had the face of a thief, and the bishop and the two lords I’ve collected with such care would have cut me dead in the Park. I would have received my social quietus forever. And, I just tell you, when I’ve worked for a thing as hard as I have for that bishop and the two lords and Lady Sara Gyves, I’m not going to give them up without a struggle.