"Now I'll hear your story," said Tom.

"I'll make it as short as possible," went on the queer man. "To
begin with, it is now several years ago since a poorly dressed
stranger applied to me one night for money enough to get a meal
and a bed to sleep in. I was living in New York City at the time,
and this was midnight, as I was returning home from my club.

"I was touched by the man's appearance, and gave him some
money. He asked for my card, saying he would repay me some day. I
gave it to him, little thinking I would hear from the man again.
But I did. He called at my apartments about a week later, saying
he had secured work as an expert setter of diamonds, and wanted
to repay me. I did not want to take his money, but the fact that
such a sorry looking specimen of manhood as he had been when I
aided him, was an expert handler of gems interested me. I talked
with the man, and he made a curious statement.

"This man, who gave his name as Enos Folwell, said he knew a place
where diamonds could be made, partly in a scientific manner, and
partly by the forces of nature. I laughed at him, but he told me so
many details that I began to believe him. He said he and some other
friends of his, who were diamond cutters, had a plant in the midst of
the Rocky Mountains, where they had succeeded in making several small,
but very perfect diamonds. They had come to the end of their rope,
though, so to speak, because they could not afford to buy the materials
needed. Folwell said that he and his companions had temporarily
separated, had left the mountain where they made diamonds, and agreed
to meet there later when they had more money with which to purchase
materials. They had all agreed to go out into civilization, and work