She played a nocturne of Chopin; and he rose and stood at the fireplace, with his hands folded behind his back. As she turned and looked at him, he said, with a smile, "That is a pretty pendant, Miriam. I think you have not many jewels, have you?" She started, and turned her head away from him. "Oh, I have quite enough," she said, with a laugh. "You must remember, Lord Sutcombe, that I am a poor clergyman's fourth daughter, and that I am not accustomed to much jewellery." "You are my son's wife, my dear Miriam," he said, with a slight smile. "And a lady of your position has usually quite a quantity of jewellery. Personally, I do not attach much importance to the decrees of fashion, but I suppose that it is as well to comply with them. Has Percy ever by chance spoken to you of the family diamonds?" The blood mantled in Miriam's face for a moment; then left it paler than before. "No," she replied. "Ah!" said the Marquess. "Of course, there are some. Indeed, there are a great many, and some of them are very beautiful, very valuable; in fact, I do not think I should exaggerate if I were to say that some of the stones are priceless; not only in a monetary sense, but because of their size and quality. There are, too, historic associations," he added, thoughtfully. There was a pause; Miriam drooped over the piano, touching a note here and there softly. "Yes, some of them are historic," resumed the Marquess meditatively. "There is a necklace which belonged to Madame du Barri, and another which Queen Elizabeth gave to one of her ladies-in-waiting. An ancestor of ours was a son of hers. I think the time has arrived when the jewels should, so to speak, be resurrected; that they should pass into your possession." Miriam's heart beat fast; but the flush of gratification did not rise to her face, for she was thinking of the base, the nefarious uses to which her husband would put these historic jewels. "Indeed, they almost belong to you by right," said the Marquess. "They have always gone with the title." His voice grew gradually slower, and presently he stopped and looked straight before him, as if he had forgotten her presence. Indeed, he had done so; for as he spoke of the title, there rose suddenly, like a cinematograph film thrown on the screen, the bent figure, grey face and piercing eyes of the real owner of the title. Not for the first time, he, the false Marquess, was giving away that which belonged to the shabbily-dressed old man who had refused to accept the position which was his by right of inheritance. The pause was a momentary one only, and the Marquess went on, "I am a widower; fortunately, Percy is married, and the family jewels really belong to you. You shall have them." Miriam moistened her lips; her heart was beating thickly. As a woman, she desired the jewels; as a wife, she must obey Heyton.