“Harkee, Luvaine!” he said. “Here’s the yeast to work ye up like a pan of bread. Did he say that? Then it’s a strange thing, by God. But, steady, man. And, what d’ye say?--shall I, before more’s spoke, give Mr. Tuke the history of your trouble?” The other’s mouth was twitching in an agitated manner. “Well,” he said, after a moment’s thought, “I’m like to lose command of myself whenever that nightmare gets up. Speak, Davy, and I’ll sit mum while I can.” The baronet turned to his astonished neighbour. “’Tis passing strange, upon my soul, that the words should be on your lips,” said he; “for ’twas the name of a great ruby that was stole from Luvaine’s father.” “The Lake of Wine?” “The Lake of Wine, sir. Ronald Luvaine was a dependent of Hastings in John Company’s pay, and received the stone in reward of some particular nice service.” “A crimson token and an apt. Was it plucked from the withered bosom of some starved Begum?” “That’s no concern of ours,” said Sir David dryly. “The point is that the gem was stole from Ronald Luvaine, that was my father’s friend, and that he went crazy of it and died in a year or so.” The soldier jumped to his feet with an insane look. “And his son,” he cried, “that should have been a rich man, succeeded to an empty legacy and a search of hate that shall be unending.” He tossed one arm aloft, with a grandiose gesture. Mr. Tuke stared at him, his brain full of bewilderment and wonder. “Steady, Luvaine!” said Sir David once more; then proceeded to discuss the other with admirable ingenuousness. “It hath made a wreck of his life, as he says--this sense of wrong and loss. We have been acquainted from boys--at least since I was one--and the grievance hath enlarged upon him with the years. Not to this day has he lighted upon any clue to the stone’s whereabouts, though the cursed red stain of it has bitten into his life.” “It hath corroded me!” cried the soldier, unabashed. He seemed to think his conduct justified by the magnitude of his loss. “I have wrought for a pittance when I should have ruffled it with the highest.” “But, how was it lost?” asked the listener, with some secret scorn for such a bitterness of avarice as he could not conceive would demoralize other than a contemptible nature. “Proposals were made by a syndicate for its purchase,” put in Sir David hastily. “The whole thing was a monstrous swindle, planned with every elaboration. Ronald Luvaine was ill-advised enough to let the stone out of his hands, and----” “There was the last of it,” cried the captain madly--“and the plunge for me into a hell of disappointment and misery.” His jaw was shaking like a rabid dog’s. “Not for a day since my dying father swore me to the curse of vengeance,” he cried, “has the stone been out of my mind. Judge then of my agitation when I hear you, a stranger, casually refer to it by name as having some bearing on a mystery connected with your house.”