There were thirty or forty personally addressed letters, the daily

heritage of the head of a great business establishment; and a plain,

yellow-wrapped package about the size of a cigarette-box, some three

inches long, two inches wide and one inch deep. It was neatly tied

with thin scarlet twine, and innocent of markings except for the

superscription in a precise, copperplate hand, and the smudge of the

postmark across the ten-cent stamp in the upper right-hand corner. The

imprint of the cancellation, faintly decipherable, showed that the

package had been mailed at the Madison Square substation at half-past

seven o'clock of the previous evening.

Mr. Harry Latham, president and active head of the H. Latham Company,

manufacturing jewelers in Fifth Avenue, found the letters and the

package on his desk when he entered his private office a few minutes

past nine o'clock. The simple fact that the package bore no return

address or identifying mark of any sort caused him to pick it up and

examine it, after which he shook it inquiringly. Then, with kindling

curiosity, he snipped the scarlet thread with a pair of silver

scissors, and unfolded the wrappings. Inside was a glazed paper box,

such as jewelers use, but still there was no mark, no printing, either

on top or bottom.

The cover of the box came off in Mr. Latham's hand, disclosing a bed

of white cotton. He removed the downy upper layer, and there--there,

nestling against the snowy background, blazed a single splendid

diamond, of six, perhaps seven, carats. Myriad colors played in its

blue-white depths, sparkling, flashing, dazzling in the subdued

light. Mr. Latham drew one long quick breath, and walked over to the

window to examine the stone in the full glare of day.