But if he kept it, where should he put it? Where could he put it so as to be certain during the night--to be _absolutely_ certain--that no one could find it with him or near him? What if he should fall faint or ill? What if ... No, there was only one thing to be done. He must pass it on. No matter what tale he told--even if he told the truth--to appear with it in his possession and to make an explanation was to damn himself finally, and that just at the moment his half-damnation on the turf was beginning to be forgotten.... He must pass it on.... He must pass it on. There was one obvious repository; an aged fool of that profession whose incompetence is stamped upon them; a native dupe. It should go into the pocket of his distinguished cousin, the Professor; it should pass into the unwitting possession of the expert on dodekahedral crystals. His mind thus decided, he was half at peace. Lord Galton went down to breakfast. He found his host already at the table. The others came in gradually, and no one talked of the stone; nor upon anything else to speak of--for of the stone everyone was thinking. It was, naturally, the learned cousin, the Professor, who first put in the word that should not have been spoken. He did it somewhere about the jam, and when the Home Secretary was already feeling the need for a pipe. Perhaps food had strengthened him. He piped up in his quavering voice: "Ah! Any news about the emerald, Humphrey? Any news this morning about the emerald? About the emerald? ... the emerald? ... the emerald?" There is a natural sequence in fools, as in all others of God's creatures. Aunt Amelia came in a good second. "Oh, yes, Humphrey," she bleated, in that woolly-mutton voice which fitted her as does sodden mist a marshy formless hill. "Is there any news about the emerald?" "There is hardly likely to be, Amelia," said her brother, as tartly as he could be got to say anything, for long years of suave politician's make-believe had untartled his tongue. "I thought," said Aunt Amelia in self-defense, "that some servant might have found it and told you." "Well, they have not," said her brother, shortly; and there was silence. The journalist opened his mouth--which he should not have done--and began rather too loudly, and in too high a pitch: "What I think, you know ..." and then stopped suddenly--which put him in no better case. What Victoria Mosel would have said nobody knew, for she took her breakfast in bed--always. But Marjorie had come down in the midst of this, and spoke sharply. She had slept little and her temper was on edge. "Oh, that's enough about the emerald!" she said. "What's the good of talking of it _now_?" Then she gave one sweeping look around, like a searchlight trying to spot a boat, and betook herself to the jam.