“Why don’t you take it to Tiffany’s?” “And get jugged?” “Sure, the law couldn’t reach you for a theft committed on the heathen of Africa.” “But I’m a known ‘crook,’ and the police would not believe my story.” “How much do you value the diamond at?” asked the “fence.” “It should bring a hundred thousand dollars, my pal and I think.” “A hundred thousand dollars?” The astonishment exhibited by Monte was not counterfeit. “That’s the figure.” “I’ll take my oath, I think you have gone crazy!” “I’m as sane as ever I was.” “Then you’ve been drinking.” “Not to signify.” “Why, if the diamond was worth even one-tenth of the sum you name, and I was ever so much disposed to deal with you, I could not find the money. Besides, I never heard of a green diamond before; it is probably an emerald.” “It is a diamond.” “Whether or not, you will have to carry your ware to some other shop.” “You could obtain double what we ask for the stone,” said Enoch. “If you haven’t the money, you know how to raise it.” “Tell me, first of all, how the jewel came into your possession.” Cook did so, only that he did not disclose Stolburst’s name. “Enoch,” said the “fence,” when the other finished, “I’d like to see that stone.” “Will you purchase if you find my story as to its value correct?” “I can better answer that question when I have seen the green diamond,” replied Murphy; “but I will not pay any such sum as one hundred thousand dollars.” “You may change your mind about that; my pal and I will call here not later than to-morrow night.” Then Enoch took his leave. If the old fence paid half what he demanded for the wondrous jewel, Cook would be highly satisfied. He headed directly for Mike Quick’s. When Enoch was within a few blocks of his destination, a man sprang at him and clutched his throat. “Where is your friend?” Cook found himself looking into the eyes of Pierre Jacquet, whose wife Dick Kidd had stolen and then murdered. CHAPTER IX. A TERRIBLE SURPRISE. “Curse you!” exclaimed Enoch; “do you mean to strangle me?” “Where is he?” asked the outraged husband. Now Cook succeeded in shaking himself free of the other’s grasp. “Who the deuce are you, anyway?” A bitter smile passed over the Frenchman’s features. “You know Pierre Jacquet?” he said. “Who do you take me to be?” “Monsieur Cook.” Enoch hesitated. “Yes,” he finally said; “that is my name: but I have no recollection of ever having seen you before.” “So,” said the other, “you have already forgotten Pierre Jacquet?” “Come to think of it, your features do look quite familiar.” “My Aimee’s features are more familiar to you now.” “Who’s Aimee?” “My wife.” A groan escaped the almost distracted husband.