Produced by Geetu Melwani, Suzanne Shell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net Transcriber's Note: A number of typographical errors found in the original text have been corrected in this version. A list of these errors is found at the end (before the advertisments from the original book). THE DANVERS JEWELS AND SIR CHARLES DANVERS by Mary Cholmondeley NEW YORK HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE 1890 * * * * * TO MY SISTER "DI" I AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATE THE STORY WHICH SHE HELPED ME TO WRITE * * * * * CONTENTS. THE DANVERS JEWELS 9 THE SEQUEL. SIR CHARLES DANVERS 93 * * * * * THE DANVERS JEWELS. CHAPTER I. I was on the point of leaving India and returning to England when he sent for me. At least, to be accurate--and I am always accurate--I was not quite on the point, but nearly, for I was going to start by the mail on the following day. I had been up to Government House to take my leave a few days before, but Sir John had been too ill to see me, or at least he had said he was. And now he was much worse--dying, it seemed, from all accounts; and he had sent down a native servant in the noon-day heat with a note, written in his shaking old hand, begging me to come up as soon as it became cooler. He said he had a commission which he was anxious I should do for him in England. Of course I went. It was not very convenient, because I had to borrow one of our fellows' traps, as I had sold my own, and none of them had the confidence in my driving which I had myself. I was also obliged to leave the packing of my collection of Malay _krises_ and Indian _kookeries_ to my bearer. I wondered as I drove along why Sir John had sent for me. Worse, was he? Dying? And without a friend. Poor old man! He had done pretty well in this world, but I was afraid he would not be up to much once he was out of it; and now it seemed he was going. I felt sorry for him. I felt more sorry when I saw him--when the tall, long-faced A.D.C. took me into his room and left us. Yes, Sir John was certainly going. There was no mistake about it. It was written in every line of his drawn fever-worn face, and in his wide fever-lit eyes, and in the clutch of his long yellow hands upon his tussore silk dressing-gown. He looked a very sick bad old man as he lay there on his low couch, placed so as to court the air from without, cooled by its passage through damped grass screens, and to receive the full strength of the punka, pulled by an invisible hand outside. "You go to England to-morrow?" he asked, sharply. It was written even in the change of his voice, which was harsh, as of old, but with all the strength gone out of it.