I am bidden to tennis at Lady Sandys’ on Sunday. Some real Wimbledon men who have engaged in mixed doubles with the marvellous Lenglen. This is too exciting.—Yours,
Now I am going to tell you the ghost story that the distinguished Orientalist told Bemerton and Bemerton told me. I shall tell it as though I myself were the owner of the fatal jewel—for that is the _motif_.
We begin with the Indian Mutiny, when a British soldier broke into a temple and wrenched the jewel from the forehead of a god. This jewel passed into the hands of my grandfather and then my father and gradually reached me. It was of a remarkable beauty—a huge ruby—but beyond keeping it in a box in the dining-room and showing it occasionally to guests, I gave little thought to my new possession.
Neither my grandfather nor father had been too prosperous, and from the moment the stone became mine I began to experience reverses—not very serious, but continuous. It was a long time before I suspected any connection between these little calamities and the jewel, but gradually I began to do so. One evening I received a shock. Several people were dining with me and suddenly the servant put a piece of paper in my hand on which one of the guests had written “Am I dreaming, or is there really a Hindoo sitting on the floor behind you? Nobody else seems to notice him.” On my asking him about it afterwards he said that the Hindoo was scrabbling on the ground as though digging a hole with his nails and that he had a very malignant expression. From time to time two or three other people, all unaware of the legend, wondered if there was not a figure of this kind in the room, and I began to get nervous. I told the story to a friend who knows more about India than any one living. “I should get rid of that stone,” he said. “It’s dangerous. But you must be quit of it scientifically.”
I must take it, he told me, to one of the Thames bridges and throw it into the river at dead low tide.
With the assistance of the almanack we ascertained the exact moment and I dropped it over. Then I went home with a light heart.
Three months later a man called to see me. He knew, he said, that I was interested in Oriental curiosities and he had a very remarkable one to show me. A ruby. It had been dredged up from the Thames and he had heard of the workman who had found it and had bought it and now gave me the first offer. It was, of course, _the_ stone. Well, I recognize fate when I meet it, and I bought it back. Kismet.