The light reflected back as from some living mass of crimson fire, now shading darkly, now glowing into wondrous, colourful transparency as he moved the case to and fro with jerky motions of his hands--and he was babbling, crooning to himself like one possessed.
"Ah, the little beauties! Ah, the pretty little things! Yes, yes; these are the ones! This is the great Aracon--see, see, the six-sided prism terminated by the six-sided pyramid.

But it must be cut--it must be cut to sell it, eh?
Ah, it is too bad--too bad! And this, this one here, I know them all, this is--" But his sentence was never finished--it was Jimmie Dale, on his feet now, leaning against the jamb of the door, his automatic covering the two men at the table, who spoke.
"Quite so, Isaac," he said coolly; "you know them all! Quite so, Isaac--but be good enough to DROP them!" The case fell from Isaac's hand, the flush on his cheeks died to a sickly pallor, and, his mouth half open, he stood like a man turned to stone, his hands with curved fingers still outstretched over the table, over the crimson gems that, spilled from the case, lay scattered now on the tabletop.

Burton neither spoke nor moved--a little whiter, the misery in his face almost apathetic, he moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue.
Jimmie Dale walked across the room, halted at the end of the table, and surveyed the two men grimly.

And then, while one hand with revolver extended rested easily on the table, the other gathered up the stones, placed them in the case, and, the case in his pocket, Jimmie Dale's lips parted in an uninviting smile.
"I guess I'm in luck to-night, eh, Isaac ?" he drawled.

"Between you and your young friend, as I believe you call him, it would appear as though I had fallen on my feet.