The Orange-Yellow Diamond

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The Orange-Yellow Diamond

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Title: The Orange-Yellow Diamond

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THE
ORANGE-YELLOW
DIAMOND
BY
J. S. FLETCHER
1921

CONTENTS
I THE PRETTY PAWNBROKER II MRS. GOLDMARK'S
EATING-HOUSE III THE DEAD MAN IV THE PLATINUM
SOLITAIRE V THE TWO LETTERS VI THE SPANISH

MANUSCRIPT VII THE MEMBER OF PARLIAMENT VIII THE
INQUEST IX WHOSE WERE THOSE RINGS? X MELKY
INTERVENES XI THE BACK DOOR XII THE FRIEND FROM
PEEBLES XIII THE CALL FOR HELP XIV THE PRIVATE
LABORATORY XV CONFERENCE XVI THE DETECTIVE CALLS
XVII WHAT THE LAMPS SHONE ON XVIII MR. STUYVESANT
GUYLER XIX PURDIE STANDS FIRM XX THE PARSLETT
AFFAIR XXI WHAT MANNER OF DEATH? XXII MR. KILLICK
GOES BACK XXIII MR. KILLICK'S OPINION XXIV THE
ORANGE-YELLOW DIAMOND XXV THE DEAD MAN'S
PROPERTY XXVI THE RAT XXVII THE EMPTY HOUSE XXVIII
THE £500 BANK NOTE XXIX MR. MORI YADA XXX THE
MORTUARY XXXI THE MIRANDOLET THEORY XXXII ONE
O'CLOCK MIDNIGHT XXXIII SECRET WORK XXXIV BAFFLED
XXXV YADA TAKES CHARGE XXXVI PILMANSEY'S TEA
ROOMS XXXVII CHANG LI XXXVIII THE JEW AND THE JAP
XXXIX THE DIAMOND NECKLACE
THE ORANGE-YELLOW DIAMOND

CHAPTER ONE
THE PRETTY PAWNBROKER
On the southern edge of the populous parish of Paddington, in a
parallelogram bounded by Oxford and Cambridge Terrace on the south,
Praed Street on the north, and by Edgware Road on the east and Spring
Street on the west, lies an assemblage of mean streets, the drab dulness
of which forms a remarkable contrast to the pretentious architectural
grandeurs of Sussex Square and Lancaster Gate, close by. In these
streets the observant will always find all those evidences of depressing
semi-poverty which are more evident in London than in any other
English city. The houses look as if laughter was never heard within
them. Where the window blinds are not torn, they are dirty; the folk
who come out of the doors wear anxious and depressed faces. Such

shops as are there are mainly kept for the sale of food of poor quality:
the taverns at the corners are destitute of attraction or pretension.
Whoever wanders into these streets finds their sordid shabbiness
communicating itself: he escapes, cast down, wondering who the folk
are who live in those grey, lifeless cages; what they do, what they think;
how life strikes them. Even the very sparrows which fight in the gutters
for garbage are less lively than London sparrows usually are; as for the
children who sit about the doorsteps, they look as if the grass, the trees,
the flowers, and the sunlight of the adjacent Kensington Gardens were
as far away as the Desert of Gobi. Within this slice of the town, indeed,
life is lived, as it were, in a stagnant backwash, which nothing and
nobody can stir.
In an upper room of one of the more respectable houses in one of the
somewhat superior streets of this neighbourhood, a young man stood
looking out of the window one November afternoon. It was then five
o'clock, and the darkness was coming: all day a gentle, never-ceasing
rain had been bringing the soot down from the dark skies upon the
already dingy roofs. It was a dismal and miserable prospect upon which
the watcher looked out, but not so miserable nor so dismal as the
situation in which he just then found himself. The mean street beneath
him was not more empty of cheerfulness than his pockets were empty
of