arcel on the table, he paused for a moment,
wondering on what strange thing the lamplight would soon shine. He
locked his door, and cut the strings, and unfolded the paper layer after
layer, and came at last to a small wooden box, simply but solidly made.
There was no lock, and Dyson had simply to raise the lid, and as he did
so he drew a long breath and started back. The lamp seemed to glimmer
feebly like a single candle, but the whole room blazed with light--and
not with light alone, but with a thousand colours, with all the glories
of some painted window; and upon the walls of his room and on the
familiar furniture, the glow flamed back and seemed to flow again to its
source, the little wooden box. For there upon a bed of soft wool lay the
most splendid jewel, a jewel such as Dyson had never dreamed of, and
within it shone the blue of far skies, and the green of the sea by the
shore, and the red of the ruby, and deep violet rays, and in the middle
of all it seemed aflame as if a fountain of fire rose up, and fell, and
rose again with sparks like stars for drops. Dyson gave a long deep
sigh, and dropped into his chair, and put his hands over his eyes to
think. The jewel was like an opal, but from a long experience of the
shop-windows he knew there was no such thing as an opal one-quarter or
one-eighth of its size. He looked at the stone again, with a feeling
that was almost awe, and placed it gently on the table under the lamp,
and watched the wonderful flame that shone and sparkled in its centre,
and then turned to the box, curious to know whether it might contain
other marvels. He lifted the bed of wool on which the opal had reclined,
and saw beneath, no more jewels, but a little old pocket-book, worn and
shabby with use. Dyson opened it at the first leaf, and dropped the book
again appalled. He had read the name of the owner, neatly written in
blue ink:

STEVEN BLACK, M. D.,
Oranmore,
Devon Road,
Harlesden.

It was several minutes before Dyson could bring himself to open the book
a second time; he remembered the wretched exile in his garret; and his
strange talk, and the memory too of the face he had seen at the window,
and of what the specialist had said, surged up in his mind, and as he
held his finger on the cover, he shivered, dreading what might be
written within. When at last he held it in his hand, and turned the
pages, he found that the first two leaves were blank, but the thi