He took the parcel from his coat pocket and handed it to her. She unwrapped it eagerly, and snapped open the case. A long-drawn “Oh!” came from her lips. Ruth Kettering loved jewels—always had done so.
“Dad, how—how wonderful!”
“Rather in a class by themselves, aren’t they?” said the millionaire with satisfaction. “You like them, eh?”
“Like them? Dad, they’re unique. How did you get hold of them?”
Van Aldin smiled.
“Ah! that’s my secret. They had to be bought privately, of course. They are rather well known. See that big stone in the middle? You have heard of it, maybe; that’s the historic ‘Heart of Fire.’ ”
“Heart of Fire!” repeated Mrs. Kettering.
She had taken the stones from the case and was holding them against her breast. The millionaire watched her. He was thinking of the series of women who had worn the jewels. The heartaches, the despairs, the jealousies. “Heart of Fire,” like all famous stones, had left behind it a trail of tragedy and violence. Held in Ruth Kettering’s assured hand, it seemed to lose its potency of evil. With her cool, equable poise, this woman of the western world seemed a negation to tragedy or heartburnings. Ruth returned the stones to their case; then, jumping up, she flung her arms round her father’s neck.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you, Dad. They are wonderful! You do give me the most marvellous presents always.”
“That’s all right,” said Van Aldin, patting her shoulder. “You are all I have, you know, Ruthie.”
“You will stay to dinner, won’t you, Father?”