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"Pray continue," said
Holmes, with approval.

"Chu San Fu's motive is
certainly clear. Where could
he
get a comparable stone to adorn his daughter? Both
Doctor
Bauer and Streeter referred to similar diamonds,
but
they would be hard come by being owned by ruling
houses
or titled men of wealth. How he learned that the
Pigott
existed is not clear."

"Nor to me," admitted my
friend. "Relative to Chu
San
Fu, let me interject some heartening news. You will
recall
that when his lawyer, Loo Chang, left here, I had arranged for
Slippery Styles to be on his trail. That in
vestment
of effort produced rich dividends. Styles stuck
with
the Oriental and located his secret office. On my
orders,
Slim Gilligan burglarized said premises securing
the
lawyers files on the illegal activities of his client.
Even
now the Limehouse Squad is gloating over a veri
table
blueprint of Chu San Fu's illicit operations. In
short
order all of his opium dens, houses of prostitution,
and
similar noisome ventures will be shut down. I said I'd smash Chu San
Fu, Watson, and we have."

As was so often the case, I
regarded Holmes with a
slack
jaw. He had crushed a kingpin of crime who had
laughed
at the law for years and now revealed the fact
as
a mere afterthought.

In Holmes's mind, the matter being
a fait accompli
Chu
San Fu now commanded little attention. This was
evidenced
by his next words.

"Back to the matter of the
fabulous gem, Watson
How
the Oriental crime tzar or Jonathan Wild, master criminal of the past
century, became privy to its existence is a matter of
speculation."

"Our client, Vasil D'Anglas,
must know more about
the
stone and its hiding place than anyone else," I stam
mered.

"True," agreed Holmes,"
and it would seem that the very man you mention, who can resolve the
entire matter, has just alighted from a hansom at our door."

But a
short time
later, I heard a heavy and labored tread on our stairs. The ascent
was interrupted by fre
quent
stops but, finally, Vasil D'Anglas, breathing
heavily,
made his way into our rooms.

When Holmes and I had visited
D'Anglas in Berlin,
the
man had not presented an attractive picture. Now. though the passage
of time had been short, his appearance had worsened. His
forehead seemed more craggy
and
overhung dull and deep-set eyes. His skin was
shocking.
Coarse and wrinkled with a dry, scaly look,
the
man reminded me of an elephant. While a surface
examination
seldom proved accurate, I had diagnosed
his
trouble in Berlin as acromegaly, a rare condition
produced
by the malfunction of the pituitary. It was
with
difficulty that I suppressed a desire to question our
visitor
regarding his problem. He had to know that his
condition
was critical and worsening, and certainly had
placed
himself in the hands of Berlin doctors. I recalled,
from
a series of articles in "The Lancet," that the Ger
mans
had involved themselves in more research into the
mysterious
pituitary gland than had our medical people.
Just
as well for our client that Holmes secured the
Golden
Bird when he did, for D'Anglas's sands were
certainly
running low, I thought.

Then my mind flashed back to our
interview with
Lindquist
who had died the next day. Selkirk had just
fallen
before the grim reaper. Had someone, at that mo
ment,
offered me the golden roc as a gift, I would have refused it with
enthusiasm. My mind directed a similar
distaste
toward the great diamond still resting in my breast pocket and I
vowed to remove the fatal object
from
my person as soon as possible. Of a sudden, I felt
that
it radiated decay and death and that I would be
contaminated
by exposure to the priceless Pigott. A
stimulated
imagination can prompt weird fantasies.

D'Anglas, having greeted us both,
had lowered him
self
ponderously into the chair adjacent to our desk. I secured his top
hat from the man, placing it on the end
table,
but he clung to the thick, oaken cane, which
aided
his stumbling steps. The head of the stick was a
heavy
piece of bronze in the shape of a hammer. It
seemed
of Arabic design and I felt would have been of
interest
to a curator of antiques.

"Mr. Holmes, your cable
filled me with joy. The despondency, which had weighed my soul
ever since the news from Constantinople that the Bird had been stolen
from Hassim's shop, was lifted."

His face shifted briefly in my
direction and then re
turned
to Holmes. "There cannot be another disappointment. Tell me
that you have the statue."

Holmes, his pipe in his mouth,
gave a slight nod.

The man's sigh of relief was akin
to ecstasy. "Possi
bly
it is not too late." A keenness infiltrated his dull eyes. "Let
me savor this moment," he said. "Tell me,
sir,
how came you by the Bird?"

"As a gift or a payment,"
said Holmes. "Either inter
pretation
has merit."

"I would like to see it."
For the first tune, D'Anglas's
face
reflected anxiety.

"Shortly." Holmes's
manner was reassuring. "There
is
some information I would like to secure."

D'Anglas shoulders lifted in a
shrugging motion. It
was
like movement of a water buffalo. The man was
glandularly
deformed but he certainly seemed powerful,
an
impression strengthened by his oversized, knobby
hands.

"Mr. Holmes, I have told you
of the search for the
Bird
by my family. I spoke the truth."

"I know that you did. It is
just that the story interests
me
and there is a great deal you did not tell."

D'Anglas's oversized face
hardened. "You have the
Bird.
May I see it?"

"Of course."

Holmes crossed to the desk.
Opening the second
drawer,
he removed the statue and passed it across the
desk
to our visitor.

The roc was dwarfed in D'Anglas's
hand and he
peered
at the masterpiece for a long time. Then his
knobby
fingers with swollen joints oscillated in a gentle movement like the
scales in a gold-assayer's office. The creases in his overhanging
forehead deepened.

"The weight is not what I
expected."

Holmes seated himself behind the
desk, his eyes
never
leaving D'Anglas.

"The diamond is no longer in
the base."

D'Anglas's hand tightened and, for
a moment, I
thought
that he would crush the statue in his grasp, but
his
movement was momentary. Ponderously, he reached
toward
the desk surface, depositing the Golden Bird there. His hand rejoined
its mate in his lap and round
the
strange handle of his stout walking stick.

"You know."

"Almost everything," was
the detective's response.

"What of the diamond?"

"I have that as well."

The goldsmith's body had been
inclined forward toward Holmes and now he leaned back, the frame
of the chair creaking. His expression mirrored relief but there
was
a tinge of surprise as well.

"Am I to have the Pigott or
does the pursuit go on?"

"I discussed this with Doctor
Watson. When you commissioned Nils Lindquist to recover the statue,
the
diamond was
still concealed within it. Since I fell heir to
Lindquist's
case, we consider that the return of the
statue
involves the passing of the gem into your hands
as
well."

Two emotions—gratitude and
astonishment—were
fighting
for supremacy on D'Anglas's face.

"But," continued Holmes,
"I cannot afford to have
loose
ends lend confusion to my case histories. Not
when
answers are readily available. I have enough unresolved matters
in my files now."

My mind immediately flashed to the
affair of "The
Engineer's
Thumb" as well as that bizarre adventure of
"The
Greek Interpreter." Of course, "The Case of
Identity,"
which Holmes had never brought to even a successful conclusion, had
bothered him for years.

Holmes's manner had convinced
D'Anglas that there
was
no sly ploy involved and he hastened to fall in with the suggestion
of the great sleuth.

"If, as a bonus, your only
request is the complete
story,
my knowledge now belongs to you. The quest of
the
Bird and what was within it has been the driving
purpose
of the ill-fated D'Anglas line for three generations."

If there was anything Holmes
enjoyed more than a
good
story, it was a strange tale that coincided with his conjecture. It
was he who now sat back in his chair with
an
expression of anticipation.

"We can dispense with the
history of the Bird prior
to
this century. Let us begin at the court of Ali Pasha of
Albania
when the Pigott Diamond and the statue be
came
one."

The goldsmith complied.

"Jean D'Anglas was a
professional soldier, who first
followed
the banner of
Le
Grand Emperor.
Then
he
chose to hire his
sword in foreign lands and in Albania achieved a position of trust
under the Lion of Janina.
French
by birth, he began to yearn for the peace of
family
life and applied his not inconsiderable talents to
the
goldsmith trade. Ali Pasha was a despot and a
wealthy
one, but he was a great fancier of art objects
and
much could be learned in his court. Of course, the
ruler's
main passion was diamonds."

Holmes never liked to be
completely left out of an
explanation
and made a comment to indicate his famil
iarity
with the narrative. "Passion, indeed! Was it not
in
1818 that Ali Pasha paid Rundell and Bridge, the
London
jewelry firm, one hundred and fifty thousand
pounds
for the Pigott?" His eyes shifted to me. "Truly, an
amazing
price for the time. Can you imagine the worth
of
the gem now?"