"The drums of jeopardy; what a haunting phrase!"

"Haunting stones, too, Kitty. For picking them up in my hands I
went to bed with a banged-up leg. I can't forget that. We
Occidentals laugh at Orientals and their superstitions. We don't
believe in the curse. And yet, by George, those emeralds were
accursed!"

"Piffle!" snorted Burlingame. "Mush! It's greed, pure and simple,
that gives precious stones their sinister histories. You'd have
been hit by that horse if you had picked up nothing more valuable
than a rhinestone buckle. Take away the gold lure, and precious
stones wouldn't sell at the price of window glass."

"Is that so? How about me? It isn't because a stone is worth so
much that makes me want it. I want it for the sheer beauty; I want
it for the tremendous panorama the sight of it unfolds in my mind.
I imagine what happened from the hour the stone was mined to the
hour it came into my possession. To me - to all genuine collectors
- the intrinsic value is nil. Can't you see? It is for me what
Balzac's La Peau de Chagrin would be to you if you had fallen on it
for the first time - money, love, tragedy, death."

An interruption came in the form of one of the office boys. The
chief was on the wire and wanted Cutty at once.

"At half after twelve, Kitty. And by the way," added Cutty as he
rose, "they say about the drums that a beautiful woman is immune to
their danger."