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Sherlock Holmes sat up with a whistle. "By Jove, Peterson!" said

he, "this is treasure trove indeed. I suppose you know what you

have got?"

"A diamond, sir? A precious stone. It cuts into glass as though

it were putty."

"It's more than a precious stone. It is the precious stone."

"Not the Countess of Morcar's blue carbuncle!" I ejaculated.

"Precisely so. I ought to know its size and shape, seeing that I

have read the advertisement about it in The Times every day

lately. It is absolutely unique, and its value can only be

conjectured, but the reward offered of £ 1000 is certainly not

within a twentieth part of the market price."

"A thousand pounds! Great Lord of mercy!" The commissionaire

plumped down into a chair and stared from one to the other of us.

"That is the reward, and I have reason to know that there are

sentimental considerations in the background which would induce

the Countess to part with half her fortune if she could but

recover the gem."