“See here, sir! See what my wife found in its crop!” He held out

his hand and displayed upon the centre of the palm a brilliantly scintillating

blue stone, rather smaller than a bean in size, but of such purity and radiance

that it twinkled like an electric point in the dark hollow of his hand.


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.”


“It was lost, if I remember aright, at the Hotel Cosmopolitan,” I

remarked.


“Precisely so, on December 22nd, just five days ago. John Horner, a

plumber, was accused of having abstracted it from the lady’s jewel-case.

The evidence against him was so strong that the case has been referred to the

Assizes. I have some account of the matter here, I believe.” He rummaged

amid his newspapers, glancing over the dates, until at last he smoothed one

out, doubled it over, and read the following paragraph:


“Hotel Cosmopolitan Jewel Robbery. John Horner, 26, plumber, was brought

up upon the charge of having upon the 22nd inst., abstracted from the