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Scientific American Supplement, No. 392, July 7, 1883 by Various, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . THE DIAMOND FIELDS OF SOUTH AFRICA. here THE DIAMOND FIELDS OF SOUTH AFRICA. At a recent meeting of the Institution of Civil Engineers, the paper read was "On the Diamond Fields and Mines of South Africa," by Mr. James N. Paxman, Asoc. M. Inst. C.E. The author commenced by stating that Kimberley was situated in Griqualand West, above 700 miles northeast from Table Bay, and 450 miles inland from Port Elizabeth and Natal on the east coast. Lines of railway were in course of construction from Table Bay and Port Elizabeth to Kimberley, and were about half completed. In Griqualand there were several diamond mines, the principal of which were Kimberley, De Beer's, Du Toit's Pan, and Bultfontein. In the Orange Free States there were also two mines, viz., Jagersfontein and Koffeyfontein, the first of which produced fine white stones. The mines were all divided into claims, the greatest number of which were to be found in the Du Toit's Pan mine. Bultfontein came next. The deepest and most regularly worked was the Kimberley mine. The next deepest was De Beer's, which, however, was very unevenly worked. Then followed Du Toit's Pan and Bultfontein. The Du Toit's Pan mine ranked next in importance to Kimberley mine. Diamonds were first discovered in 1867 by Mr. O'Reilley, a trader and hunter, who visited a colonist named van Niekirk, residing in Griqua. The first diamond, on being sent to the authorities, was valued at 500 . Considerable excitement was caused throughout the colony, and the natives commenced to look for diamonds, and many were found, among which was one of eighty-three and a half carats, valued at 15,000 . In 1868 many enterprising colonists made their way up the Vaal River, and were successful in finding a good number of diamonds. The center of the river diggings on the Transvaal side was Klipdrift, and on the opposite side Pniel. In all there were fourteen river diggings. Du Toit's Pan and Bultfontein mines were discovered in 1870 at a distance of twenty-four miles from the river diggings. The diggers took possession of these places. Licenses were granted giving the first diggers a right to work. In 1871 De Beer's and Kimberley mines were discovered, and in 1872, Mr. Spalding's great diamond of 282½ carats was found at the river diggings. l l The mines were of irregular shape, and were surrounded by reef. The top reef was a loose shale, and had given great trouble from the frequent slips. Below this were strata of trachitic breccia and augite; the formation was then seamy to an unknown depth. Within the reef, the surface soil was red, and of a sandy nature. The next stratum was of a loose, yellow, gravelly lime, and the third blue, of a hard, slaty nature. This last was the real diamantiferous soil. Large stones had been found in the "yellow," but the working of this generally did not pay. Kimberley mine, however, had paid very well all through. The method of working in deep ground was determined by roadways running north and south. The soil was hauled up to these roadways, and taken to the sorting tables. The roadways decaying shortly after exposure to the atmosphere, a system of hand windlass was adopted, which worked very well for a time until horsewhims were adopted in 1873. The depths of the mines increasing, horsewhims had to give way to steam-engines in 1876. The first diggers treated on an average ten loads per day each party. At the present time the least taken out by any engine, when fully employed, was 250 loads per day. The cost of working, with present appliances, the first one hundred feet in depth, was 3s. 6d. per load; the second one hundred feet (mostly blue) 5s.; the third one hundred feet 8s.; and the fourth one hundred feet 11s. Through scarcity of water a system of dry-sorting had to be resorted to for several years; but it was superseded by the introduction of washing machinery, which was now generally employed. At the commencement, through inexperience, many serious mistakes were made. When the first diggers reached the bottom of the red sand, they thought no diamonds would be found in the next stratum. When, however, diamonds were found in the second stratum, the diggers had again to remove the debris, and so also when the "blue" was reached. Some of the claims in the Du Toit's Pan and Bultfontein mines were irregular in shape. The other mines, however, had been properly and regularly laid out. One or two shafts had been connected with the mines by underground galleries. These galleries were convenient in the case of falls of reef. Labor, at first, was cheap; but from 20s. per month, wages rose to 30s. per week, and food. The yellow soil offered no difficulty in working, being loose and broken, but the blue soil required blasting. Several methods were adopted for extracting the soil and carrying it from the mine before steam was introduced. The cost of wood for heating purposes was a serious item, but good coal had now been found at 160 miles from Kimberley, costing 13l. per ton; another serious item of expense was the transport over natural roads only, costing from 18 . to 30 . per ton. l l The machinery designed by the author for this industry was described. A sixteen horse-power direct-acting winding engine was introduced for hauling up loads at the rate of about one thousand feet per minute, and a twenty-five horse-power geared engine, for hauling up heavier loads at the rate of from six hundred feet to seven hundred feet per minute. Water was dear, and water-heaters were fitted to each engine, by which thirty-three per cent. of the water was again used, thus saving one third. The boilers were of the locomotive type, mostly of steel, to save weight, and thus reduce the cost of transit. The fire-boxes were also made of steel of very soft and ductile quality. A semi-portable engine was made for driving the wash mill. The engine was so arranged that it might be removed from the boiler and placed separately. The boiler was made to work at a pressure of 140 pounds per square inch. Automatic cut off gear was fixed to each engine, and the governors were provided with a spiral spring for adjusting the speed. A screen, or cylinder wash mill and elevator, were used for dealing with the diamantiferous soil, and were described. Standing wires were fixed at the back of the machinery, and passed over a frame fixed at the top of the mine, the end of the mine being secured to strong wooden posts. After the blue soil had been blasted and collected into trucks, it was placed in tubs, which ascended the standing wires. It was then emptied into the depositing box. The yellow soil might be put into the wash mill direct, also that portion of the blue which had passed through the screen fixed over the depositing box. The remainder of the blue, which was spread out to a thickness of four inches or six inches on the depositing ground, some distance from the mine to dry, was delivered into the upper part of the screen. The return water from the elevator, with a portion of fresh water, was also discharged at this point, and operations were thus greatly facilitated, the soil becoming thoroughly saturated, and passing more easily down the shoots. The large pieces which would not drop through the meshes of the screen were discharged into trucks at the lower end and carried away. The smaller pieces with water, in the form of sludge, fell through into a shoot, and thus were conveyed into the wash mill pan, and there kept in constant rotating motion by agitators. The diamonds and other pieces of high specific gravity sank to the deepest part of the pan, and the remainder of the sludge was forced over the inner ledge to the elevator. The sludge was then lifted and thrown upon an inclined screen and down the shoot over the side of the bank. The residue left in the pan at the end of the day's work was passed through a pulsator, in which, by the force of water, the mud and lighter particles were carried away, leaving behind the diamonds, agates, garnets, and other heavy stones. It was the practice occasionally to put a few inferior stones in the soil, to test the efficiency of the machinery. In 1881 the author paid a visit to Kimberley, and found the industry a large one. The Post Office return showed the value of diamonds passed through the office in one year to be 3,685,000 . Illicit diamond traffic had hitherto been a source of great trouble at the fields. It was a question whether this industry would ever cease; in any case there was no doubt but that it would last for over a century. It was believed that the main bed of diamonds had not yet been reached, and that the mines in operation were merely shafts leading to it. Now that the water works were finished, with a bountiful supply of water, coupled with the great boon of railways to the Fields, and the advantage of a law recently passed for the prevention of illicit buying, a great and prosperous future was in store for the Diamond Fields. l About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Various (2005). Scientific American Supplement, No. 392, July 7, 1883. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/8742/pg8742-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

THE DIAMOND FIELDS OF SOUTH AFRICA

Diamonds Are Diamonds

An Autobiography of Anthony Trollope by Anthony Trollope, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book . RALPH THE HEIR—THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS—LADY ANNA—AUSTRALIA. here RALPH THE HEIR—THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS—LADY ANNA—AUSTRALIA. In the spring of 1871 we,—I and my wife,—had decided that we would go to Australia to visit our shepherd son. Of course before doing so I made a contract with a publisher for a book about the Colonies. For such a work as this I had always been aware that I could not fairly demand more than half the price that would be given for the same amount of fiction; and as such books have an indomitable tendency to stretch themselves, so that more is given than what is sold, and as the cost of travelling is heavy, the writing of them is not remunerative. This tendency to stretch comes not, I think, generally from the ambition of the writer, but from his inability to comprise the different parts in their allotted spaces. If you have to deal with a country, a colony, a city, a trade, or a political opinion, it is so much easier to deal with it in twenty than in twelve pages! I also made an engagement with the editor of a London daily paper to supply him with a series of articles,—which were duly written, duly published, and duly paid for. But with all this, travelling with the object of writing is not a good trade. If the travelling author can pay his bills, he must be a good manager on the road. Before starting there came upon us the terrible necessity of coming to some resolution about our house at Waltham. It had been first hired, and then bought, primarily because it suited my Post Office avocations. To this reason had been added other attractions,—in the shape of hunting, gardening, and suburban hospitalities. Altogether the house had been a success, and the scene of much happiness. But there arose questions as to expense. Would not a house in London be cheaper? There could be no doubt that my income would decrease, and was decreasing. I had thrown the Post Office, as it were, away, and the writing of novels could not go on for ever. Some of my friends told me already that at fifty-five I ought to give up the fabrication of love-stories. The hunting, I thought, must soon go, and I would not therefore allow that to keep me in the country. And then, why should I live at Waltham Cross now, seeing that I had fixed on that place in reference to the Post Office? It was therefore determined that we would flit, and as we were to be away for eighteen months, we determined also to sell our furniture. So there was a packing up, with many tears, and consultations as to what should be saved out of the things we loved. As must take place on such an occasion, there was some heart-felt grief. But the thing was done, and orders were given for the letting or sale of the house. I may as well say here that it never was let, and that it remained unoccupied for two years before it was sold. I lost by the transaction about £800. As I continually hear that other men make money by buying and selling houses, I presume I am not well adapted for transactions of that sort. I have never made money by selling anything except a manuscript. In matters of horseflesh I am so inefficient that I have generally given away horses that I have not wanted. When we started from Liverpool, in May 1871, was running through the . This was the novel of which Charles Reade afterwards took the plot and made on it a play. I have always thought it to be one of the worst novels I have written, and almost to have justified that dictum that a novelist after fifty should not write love-stories. It was in part a political novel; and that part which appertains to politics, and which recounts the electioneering experiences of the candidates at Percycross, is well enough. Percycross and Beverley were, of course, one and the same place. Neefit, the breeches-maker, and his daughter, are also good in their way,—and Moggs, the daughter's lover, who was not only lover, but also one of the candidates at Percycross as well. But the main thread of the story,—that which tells of the doings of the young gentlemen and young ladies,—the heroes and the heroines,—is not good. Ralph the heir has not much life about him; while Ralph who is not the heir, but is intended to be the real hero, has none. The same may be said of the young ladies,—of whom one, she who was meant to be the chief, has passed utterly out of my mind, without leaving a trace of remembrance behind. Ralph the Heir St. Paul's I also left in the hands of the editor of , ready for production on the 1st of July following, a story called . In that I think that my friend's dictum was disproved. There is not much love in it; but what there is, is good. The character of Lucy Morris is pretty; and her love is as genuine and as well told as that of Lucy Robarts or Lily Dale. The Fortnightly The Eustace Diamonds But achieved the success which it certainly did attain, not as a love-story, but as a record of a cunning little woman of pseudo-fashion, to whom, in her cunning, there came a series of adventures, unpleasant enough in themselves, but pleasant to the reader. As I wrote the book, the idea constantly presented itself to me that Lizzie Eustace was but a second Becky Sharpe; but in planning the character I had not thought of this, and I believe that Lizzie would have been just as she is though Becky Sharpe had never been described. The plot of the diamond necklace is, I think, well arranged, though it produced itself without any forethought. I had no idea of setting thieves after the bauble till I had got my heroine to bed in the inn at Carlisle; nor of the disappointment of the thieves, till Lizzie had been wakened in the morning with the news that her door had been broken open. All these things, and many more, Wilkie Collins would have arranged before with infinite labour, preparing things present so that they should fit in with things to come. I have gone on the very much easier plan of making everything as it comes fit in with what has gone before. At any rate, the book was a success, and did much to repair the injury which I felt had come to my reputation in the novel-market by the works of the last few years. I doubt whether I had written anything so successful as since . I had written what was much better,—as, for instance, and ; but that is by no means the same thing. The Eustace Diamonds The Eustace Diamonds The Small House at Allington Phineas Finn Nina Balatka I also left behind, in a strong box, the manuscript of , a novel of which I have already spoken, and which I subsequently sold to the proprietors of the newspaper. The editor of that paper greatly disliked the title, assuring me that the public would take Redux for the gentleman's surname,—and was dissatisfied with me when I replied that I had no objection to them doing so. The introduction of a Latin word, or of a word from any other language, into the title of an English novel is undoubtedly in bad taste; but after turning the matter much over in my own mind, I could find no other suitable name. Phineas Redux Graphic I also left behind me, in the same strong box, another novel, called , which then had been some time written, and of which, as it has not even yet been published, I will not further speak. It will probably be published some day, though, looking forward, I can see no room for it, at any rate, for the next two years. An Eye for an Eye If therefore the Great Britain, in which we sailed for Melbourne, had gone to the bottom, I had so provided that there would be new novels ready to come out under my name for some years to come. This consideration, however, did not keep me idle while I was at sea. When making long journeys, I have always succeeded in getting a desk put up in my cabin, and this was done ready for me in the Great Britain, so that I could go to work the day after we left Liverpool. This I did; and before I reached Melbourne I had finished a story called . Every word of this was written at sea, during the two months required for our voyage, and was done day by day—with the intermission of one day's illness—for eight weeks, at the rate of 66 pages of manuscript in each week, every page of manuscript containing 250 words. Every word was counted. I have seen work come back to an author from the press with terrible deficiencies as to the amount supplied. Thirty-two pages have perhaps been wanted for a number, and the printers with all their art could not stretch the matter to more than twenty-eight or -nine! The work of filling up must be very dreadful. I have sometimes been ridiculed for the methodical details of my business. But by these contrivances I have been preserved from many troubles; and I have saved others with whom I have worked—editors, publishers, and printers—from much trouble also. Lady Anna A month or two after my return home, appeared in , following . In it a young girl, who is really a lady of high rank and great wealth, though in her youth she enjoyed none of the privileges of wealth or rank, marries a tailor who had been good to her, and whom she had loved when she was poor and neglected. A fine young noble lover is provided for her, and all the charms of sweet living with nice people are thrown in her way, in order that she may be made to give up the tailor. And the charms are very powerful with her. But the feeling that she is bound by her troth to the man who had always been true to her overcomes everything,—and she marries the tailor. It was my wish of course to justify her in doing so, and to carry my readers along with me in my sympathy with her. But everybody found fault with me for marrying her to the tailor. What would they have said if I had allowed her to jilt the tailor and marry the good-looking young lord? How much louder, then, would have been the censure! The book was read, and I was satisfied. If I had not told my story well, there would have been no feeling in favour of the young lord. The horror which was expressed to me at the evil thing I had done, in giving the girl to the tailor, was the strongest testimony I could receive of the merits of the story. Lady Anna The Fortnightly The Eustace Diamonds I went to Australia chiefly in order that I might see my son among his sheep. I did see him among his sheep, and remained with him for four or five very happy weeks. He was not making money, nor has he made money since. I grieve to say that several thousands of pounds which I had squeezed out of the pockets of perhaps too liberal publishers have been lost on the venture. But I rejoice to say that this has been in no way due to any fault of his. I never knew a man work with more persistent honesty at his trade than he has done. I had, however, the further intentions of writing a book about the entire group of Australasian Colonies; and in order that I might be enabled to do that with sufficient information, I visited them all. Making my head-quarters at Melbourne, I went to Queensland, New South Wales, Tasmania, then to the very little known territory of Western Australia, and then, last of all, to New Zealand. I was absent in all eighteen months, and think that I did succeed in learning much of the political, social, and material condition of these countries. I wrote my book as I was travelling, and brought it back with me to England all but completed in December, 1872. It was a better book than that which I had written eleven years before on the American States, but not so good as that on the West Indies in 1859. As regards the information given, there was much more to be said about Australia than the West Indies. Very much more is said,—and very much more may be learned from the latter than from the former book. I am sure that any one who will take the trouble to read the book on Australia, will learn much from it. But the West Indian volume was readable. I am not sure that either of the other works are, in the proper sense of that word. When I go back to them I find that the pages drag with me;—and if so with me, how must it be with others who have none of that love which a father feels even for his ill-favoured offspring. Of all the needs a book has the chief need is that it be readable. Feeling that these volumes on Australia were dull and long, I was surprised to find that they had an extensive sale. There were, I think, 2000 copies circulated of the first expensive edition; and then the book was divided into four little volumes, which were published separately, and which again had a considerable circulation. That some facts were stated inaccurately, I do not doubt; that many opinions were crude, I am quite sure; that I had failed to understand much which I attempted to explain, is possible. But with all these faults the book was a thoroughly honest book, and was the result of unflagging labour for a period of fifteen months. I spared myself no trouble in inquiry, no trouble in seeing, and no trouble in listening. I thoroughly imbued my mind with the subject, and wrote with the simple intention of giving trustworthy information on the state of the Colonies. Though there be inaccuracies,—those inaccuracies to which work quickly done must always be subject,—I think I did give much valuable information. I came home across America from San Francisco to New York, visiting Utah and Brigham Young on the way. I did not achieve great intimacy with the great polygamist of the Salt Lake City. I called upon him, sending to him my card, apologising for doing so without an introduction, and excusing myself by saying that I did not like to pass through the territory without seeing a man of whom I had heard so much. He received me in his doorway, not asking me to enter, and inquired whether I were not a miner. When I told him that I was not a miner, he asked me whether I earned my bread. I told him I did. "I guess you're a miner," said he. I again assured him that I was not. "Then how do you earn your bread?" I told him that I did so by writing books. "I'm sure you're a miner," said he. Then he turned upon his heel, went back into the house, and closed the door. I was properly punished, as I was vain enough to conceive that he would have heard my name. I got home in December, 1872, and in spite of any resolution made to the contrary, my mind was full of hunting as I came back. No real resolutions had in truth been made, for out of a stud of four horses I kept three, two of which were absolutely idle through the two summers and winter of my absence. Immediately on my arrival I bought another, and settled myself down to hunting from London three days a week. At first I went back to Essex, my old country, but finding that to be inconvenient, I took my horses to Leighton Buzzard, and became one of that numerous herd of sportsmen who rode with the "Baron" and Mr. Selby Lowndes. In those days Baron Meyer was alive, and the riding with his hounds was very good. I did not care so much for Mr. Lowndes. During the winters of 1873, 1874, and 1875, I had my horses back in Essex, and went on with my hunting, always trying to resolve that I would give it up. But still I bought fresh horses, and, as I did not give it up, I hunted more than ever. Three times a week the cab has been at my door in London very punctually, and not unfrequently before seven in the morning. In order to secure this attendance, the man has always been invited to have his breakfast in the hall. I have gone to the Great Eastern Railway,—ah! so often with the fear that frost would make all my exertions useless, and so often too with that result! And then, from one station or another station, have travelled on wheels at least a dozen miles. After the day's sport, the same toil has been necessary to bring me home to dinner at eight. This has been work for a young man and a rich man, but I have done it as an old man and comparatively a poor man. Now at last, in April, 1876, I do think that my resolution has been taken. I am giving away my old horses, and anybody is welcome to my saddles and horse-furniture. "Singula de nobis anni prædantur euntes; Eripuere jocos, venerem, convivia, ludum; Tendunt extorquere poëmata." "Our years keep taking toll as they move on; My feasts, my frolics, are already gone, And now, it seems, my verses must go too." This is Conington's translation, but it seems to me to be a little flat. "Years as they roll cut all our pleasures short; Our pleasant mirth, our loves, our wine, our sport. And then they stretch their power, and crush at last Even the power of singing of the past." I think that I may say with truth that I rode hard to my end. "Vixi puellis nuper idoneus, Et militavi non sine gloria; Nunc arma defunctumque bello Barbiton hic paries habebit." "I've lived about the covert side, I've ridden straight, and ridden fast; Now breeches, boots, and scarlet pride Are but mementoes of the past." About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Anthony Trollope (2004). An Autobiography of Anthony Trollope. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/5978/pg5978-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at , located at . www.gutenberg.org https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html

RALPH THE HEIR—THE EUSTACE DIAMONDS—LADY ANNA—AUSTRALIA.

Recent advancements in led to the emergence of AI Agents. In plain terms, an agent is a mechanism that equips LLMs with a set of external tools (functions). These tools can be invoked by the model (once or multiple times in a row) based on the user’s input. Large Language Models Originally, in order to integrate a function into an LLM, it was needed to carefully construct the prompt in order to describe the function. Additionally, the output had to be parsed to detect whether the model intended to use this function. The latest release of GPT introduced function-calling capabilities that simplify the process of integrating the functions. First of all, it defines a clear and fixed structure for describing the functions. Moreover, the models themselves have been further fine-tuned to both detect when a function should be called (based on the input) and to respond with that adheres to the function signature. However, despite these improvements, the integration process still remains tedious and requires a lot of overhead. JSON In this article, we will explore how to build a simple conversational AI agent using the Agent Dingo library. The key feature of Dingo is that it allows the integration of external functions into ChatGPT by adding just a single line of code. In addition, it serves the agent with the required capabilities on an OpenAI-compatible web server. Quick Start To give a quick glimpse into the core functionality of Dingo, we will build a simple agent that is able to provide information about the current weather by querying the API. OpenWeather As the first step, the library has to be installed. pip install agent-dingo Next, we need to set the OpenAI API key. export OPENAI_API_KEY=<YOUR_KEY> Then, our Dingo agent can be instantiated as follows: from agent_dingo import AgentDingo

agent = AgentDingo() Let’s say that for getting the current weather via OpenWeather API we have a function. In order to integrate it into ChatGPT we need to add — the decorator . get_temperature a single line of code @agent.function @agent.function
def get_temperature(city: str) -> str:
    base_url = "https://api.openweathermap.org/data/2.5/weather"
    params = {"q": city, "appid": openweathermap_api_key, "units": "metric"}
    response = requests.get(base_url, params=params)
    data = response.json()
    print("get_temperature function output :", data["main"])
    return str(data) To get the output we need to call the method. chat agent.chat("What is the current weather in Linz?") As you can see the process of function integration is very intuitive and simple. Behind the scenes, we are asking ChatGPT for the current weather in Linz. The model has access to the function ( ) that was integrated by using decorator. The model decides to call function and passes city Linz as an argument. The response is parsed and we receive the following output. get_temperature agent.function get_temperature The current temperature in Linz is 30°C. As you might have noticed, we did not have to provide any descriptions of the function. This is achieved by the automatic docstring generation during the registration process (when decorator is called). agent.function In addition, it is possible to serve the agent on an OpenAI-compatible web server: from agent_dingo.wrapper import DingoWrapper
DingoWrapper(agent).serve() The server can be accessed using the python package: openai import openai

openai.api_base = "http://localhost:8080"

r = openai.ChatCompletion.create(
    model = "gpt-3.5-turbo",
    messages = [{"role": "user", "content": "What is the current weather in Linz?"}],
    temperature=0.0,
) Conclusion In this article, we explored how streamlines the process of integrating Python functions into ChatGPT in order to build a conversational AI agent. With Dingo, you no longer have to worry about manually integrating the functions or dealing with intermediate function calls. The framework is crafted to automate these tasks, allowing you to focus on writing the core functionality of your app. Agent Dingo Also published here.

Dingo: A Microframework for Building Conversational AI Agents

DINGO'S SAGACITY

THE DIAMOND AS BIG AS THE RITZ

The Man in the Brown Suit by Agatha Christie, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . Chapter XXVII CHAPTER XXVII Harry listened attentively whilst I recounted all the events that I have narrated in these pages. The thing that bewildered and astonished him most was to find that all along the diamonds had been in my possession—or rather in Suzanne’s. That was a fact he had never suspected. Of course, after hearing his story, I realized the point of Carton’s little arrangement—or rather Nadina’s, since I had no doubt that it was her brain which had conceived the plan. No surprise tactics executed against her or her husband could result in the seizure of the diamonds. The secret was locked in her own brain, and the “Colonel” was not likely to guess that they had been entrusted to the keeping of an ocean steward! Harry’s vindication from the old charge of theft seemed assured. It was the other, graver charge that paralyzed all our activities. For, as things stood, he could not come out in the open to prove his case. The one thing we came back to, again and again, was the identity of the “Colonel.” Was he, or was he not, Guy Pagett? “I should say he was but for one thing,” said Harry. “It seems pretty much of a certainty that it was Pagett who murdered Anita Grünberg at Marlow—and that certainly lends colour to the supposition that he is actually the ‘Colonel,’ since Anita’s business was not of the nature to be discussed with a subordinate. No—the only thing that militates against that theory is the attempt to put you out of the way on the night of your arrival here. You saw Pagett left behind at Cape Town—by no possible means could he have arrived here before the following Wednesday. He is unlikely to have any emissaries in this part of the world, and all his plans were laid to deal with you in Cape Town. He might, of course, have cabled instructions to some lieutenant of his in Johannesburg, who could have joined the Rhodesian train at Mafeking, but his instructions would have had to be particularly definite to allow of that note being written.” We sat silent for a moment, then Harry went on slowly: “You say that Mrs. Blair was asleep when you left the hotel and that you heard Sir Eustace dictating to Miss Pettigrew? Where was Colonel Race?” “I could not find him anywhere.” “Had he any reason to believe that—you and I might be friendly with each other?” “He might have had,” I answered thoughtfully, remembering our conversation on the way back from the Matoppos. “He’s a very powerful personality,” I continued, “but not at all my idea of the ‘Colonel.’ And, anyway, such an idea would be absurd. He’s in the Secret Service.” “How do we know that he is? It’s the easiest thing in the world to throw out a hint of that kind. No one contradicts it, and the rumour spreads until every one believes it as gospel truth. It provides an excuse for all sorts of doubtful doings. Anne, do you like Race?” “I do—and I don’t. He repels me and at the same time fascinates me; but I know one thing, I’m always a little afraid of him.” “He was in South Africa, you know, at the time of the Kimberley robbery,” said Harry slowly. “But it was he who told Suzanne all about the ‘Colonel’ and how he had been in Paris trying to get on his track.” “Camouflage—of a particularly clever kind.” “But where does Pagett come in? Is he in Race’s pay?” “Perhaps,” said Harry slowly, “he doesn’t come in at all.” “What?” “Think back, Anne. Did you ever hear Pagett’s own account of that night on the Kilmorden?” “Yes—through Sir Eustace.” I repeated it. Harry listened closely. “He saw a man coming from the direction of Sir Eustace’s cabin and followed him up on deck. Is that what he says? Now, who had the cabin opposite to Sir Eustace? Colonel Race. Supposing Colonel Race crept up on deck, and, foiled in his attack on you, fled round the deck and met Pagett just coming through the saloon door. He knocks him down and springs inside, closing the door. We dash round and find Pagett lying there. How’s that?” “You forget that he declares positively it was you who knocked him down.” “Well, suppose that just as he regains consciousness he sees me disappearing in the distance? Wouldn’t he take it for granted that I was his assailant? Especially as he thought all along it was I he was following?” “It’s possible, yes,” I said slowly. “But it alters all our ideas. And there are other things.” “Most of them are open to explanation. The man who followed you in Cape Town spoke to Pagett, and Pagett looked at his watch. The man might have merely asked him the time.” “It was just a coincidence, you mean?” “Not exactly. There’s a method in all this, connecting Pagett with the affair. Why was the Mill House chosen for the murder? Was it because Pagett had been in Kimberley when the diamonds were stolen? Would he have been made the scapegoat if I had not appeared so providentially upon the scene?” “Then you think he may be entirely innocent?” “It looks like it, but, if so, we’ve got to find out what he was doing in Marlow. If he’s got a reasonable explanation of that, we’re on the right tack.” He got up. “It’s past midnight. Turn in, Anne, and get some sleep. Just before dawn I’ll take you over in the boat. You must catch the train at Livingstone. I’ve got a friend there who will keep you hidden away until the train starts. You go to Bulawayo and catch the Beira train there. I can find out from my friend in Livingstone what’s going on at the hotel and where your friends are now.” “Beira,” I said meditatively. “Yes, Anne, it’s Beira for you. This is man’s work. Leave it to me.” We had had a momentary respite from emotion whilst we talked the situation out, but it was on us again now. We did not even look at each other. “Very well,” I said, and passed into the hut. I lay down on the skin-covered couch, but I didn’t sleep, and outside I could hear Harry Rayburn pacing up and down, up and down through the long dark hours. At last he called me: “Come, Anne, it’s time to go.” I got up and came out obediently. It was still quite dark, but I knew that dawn was not far off. “We’ll take the canoe, not the motor-boat——” Harry began, when suddenly he stopped dead and held up his hand. “Hush! What’s that?” I listened, but could hear nothing. His ears were sharper than mine, however, the ears of a man who has lived long in the wilderness. Presently I heard it too—the faint splash of paddles in the water coming from the direction of the right bank of the river and rapidly approaching our little landing-stage. We strained our eyes in the darkness, and could make out a dark blur on the surface of the water. It was a boat. Then there was a momentary spurt of flame. Some one had struck a match. By its light I recognized one figure, the red-bearded Dutchman of the villa at Muizenberg. The others were natives. “Quick—back to the hut.” Harry swept me back with him. He took down a couple of rifles and a revolver from the wall. “Can you load a rifle?” “I never have. Show me how.” I grasped his instructions well enough. We closed the door and Harry stood by the window which overlooked the landing-stage. The boat was just about to run alongside it. “Who’s that?” called out Harry in a ringing voice. Any doubt we might have had as to our visitors’ intentions was swiftly resolved. A hail of bullets splattered round us. Fortunately neither of us was hit. Harry raised the rifle. It spat murderously, and again and again. I heard two groans and a splash. “That’s given ’em something to think about,” he muttered grimly, as he reached for the second rifle. “Stand well back, Anne, for God’s sake. And load quickly.” More bullets. One just grazed Harry’s cheek. His answering fire was more deadly than theirs. I had the rifle reloaded when he turned for it. He caught me close with his left arm and kissed me once savagely before he turned to the window again. Suddenly he uttered a shout. “They’re going—had enough of it. They’re a good mark out there on the water, and they can’t see how many of us there are. They’re routed for the moment—but they’ll come back. We’ll have to get ready for them.” He flung down the rifle and turned to me. “Anne! You beauty! You wonder! You little queen! As brave as a lion. Black-haired witch!” He caught me in his arms. He kissed my hair, my eyes, my mouth. “And now to business,” he said, suddenly releasing me. “Get out those tins of paraffin.” I did as I was told. He was busy inside the hut. Presently I saw him on the roof of the hut, crawling along with something in his arms. He rejoined me in a minute or two. “Go down to the boat. We’ll have to carry it across the island to the other side.” He picked up the paraffin as I disappeared. “They’re coming back,” I called softly. I had seen the blur moving out from the opposite shore. He ran down to me. “Just in time. Why—where the hell’s the boat?” Both had been cut adrift. Harry whistled softly. “We’re in a tight place, honey. Mind?” “Not with you.” “Ah, but dying together’s not much fun. We’ll do better than that. See—they’ve got two boat-loads this time. Going to land at two different points. Now for my little scenic effect.” Almost as he spoke a long flame shot up from the hut. Its light illuminated two crouching figures huddled together on the roof. “My old clothes—stuffed with rags—but they won’t tumble to it for some time. Come, Anne, we’ve got to try desperate means.” Hand in hand, we raced across the island. Only a narrow channel of water divided it from the shore on that side. “We’ve got to swim for it. Can you swim at all, Anne? Not that it matters. I can get you across. It’s the wrong side for a boat——too many rocks, but the right side for swimming, and the right side for Livingstone.” “I can swim a little—farther than that. What’s the danger, Harry?” For I had seen the grim look on his face. “Sharks?” “No, you little goose. Sharks live in the sea. But you’re sharp, Anne. Crocs, that’s the trouble.” “Crocodiles?” “Yes, don’t think of them—or say your prayers, whichever you feel inclined.” We plunged in. My prayers must have been efficacious, for we reached the shore without adventure, and drew ourselves up wet and dripping on the bank. “Now for Livingstone. It’s rough going, I’m afraid, and wet clothes won’t make it any better. But it’s got to be done.” That walk was a nightmare. My wet skirts flapped round my legs, and my stockings were soon torn off by the thorns. Finally I stopped, utterly exhausted. Harry came back to me. “Hold up, honey. I’ll carry you for a bit.” That was the way I came into Livingstone, slung across his shoulder like a sack of coals. How he did it for all that way, I don’t know. The first faint light of dawn was just breaking. Harry’s friend was a young man of twenty odd who kept a store of native curios. His name was Ned—perhaps he had another, but I never heard it. He didn’t seem in the least surprised to see Harry walk in, dripping wet, holding an equally dripping female by the hand. Men are very wonderful. He gave us food to eat, and hot coffee, and got our clothes dried for us whilst we rolled ourselves in Manchester blankets of gaudy hue. In the tiny back room of the hut we were safe from observation whilst he departed to make judicious inquiries as to what had become of Sir Eustace’s party, and whether any of them were still at the hotel. It was then that I informed Harry that nothing would induce me to go to Beira. I never meant to, anyway, but now all reason for such proceedings had vanished. The point of the plan had been that my enemies believed me dead. Now that they knew I wasn’t dead, my going to Beira would do no good whatever. They could easily follow me there and murder me quietly. I should have no one to protect me. It was finally arranged that I should join Suzanne, wherever she was, and devote all my energies to taking care of myself. On no account was I to seek adventures or endeavour to checkmate the “Colonel.” I was to remain quietly with her and await instructions from Harry. The diamonds were to be deposited in the Bank at Kimberley under the name of Parker. “There’s one thing,” I said thoughtfully, “we ought to have a code of some kind. We don’t want to be hoodwinked again by messages purporting to come from one to the other.” “That’s easy enough. Any message that comes genuinely from me will have the word ‘and’ crossed out in it.” “Without trade-mark, none genuine,” I murmured. “What about wires?” “Any wires from me will be signed ‘Andy.’” “Train will be in before long, Harry,” said Ned, putting his head in and withdrawing it immediately. I stood up. “And shall I marry a nice steady man if I find one?” I asked demurely. Harry came close to me. “My God! Anne, if you ever marry any one else but me, I’ll wring his neck. And as for you——” “Yes,” I said, pleasurably excited. “I shall carry you away and beat you black and blue!” “What a delightful husband I have chosen,” I said satirically. “And doesn’t he change his mind overnight!” About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Agatha Christie (2020). The Man in the Brown Suit. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/61168/pg61168-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html.

The seizure of the diamonds

Emily of New Moon by L. M. Montgomery, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . Diamond Cut Diamond CHAPTER V. Diamond Cut Diamond EMILY, who had been pointedly ignored by the Murrays at breakfast, was called into the parlour when the meal was over. They were all there—the whole phalanx of them—and it occurred to Emily as she looked at Uncle Wallace, sitting in the spring sunshine, that she had not just found the exact word after all to express his peculiar quality of grimness. Aunt Elizabeth stood unsmilingly by the table with slips of paper in her hand. “Emily,” she said, “last night we could not decide who should take you. I may say that none of us feel very much like doing so, for you have behaved very badly in many respects—” “Oh, Elizabeth,—” protested Laura. “She—she is our sister’s child.” Elizabeth lifted a hand regally. “ am doing this, Laura. Have the goodness not to interrupt me. As I was saying, Emily, we could not decide as to who should have the care of you. So we have agreed to Cousin Jimmy’s suggestion that we settle the matter by lot. I have our names here, written on these slips of paper. You will draw one and the one whose name is on it will give you a home.” I Aunt Elizabeth held out the slips of paper. Emily trembled so violently that at first she could not draw one. This was terrible—it seemed as if she must blindly settle her own fate. “Draw,” said Aunt Elizabeth. Emily set her teeth, threw back her head with the air of one who challenges destiny, and drew. Aunt Elizabeth took the slip from the little shaking hand and held it up. On it was her own name—“Elizabeth Murray.” Laura Murray suddenly put her handkerchief to her eyes. “Well, that’s settled,” said Uncle Wallace, getting up with an air of relief. “And if I’m going to catch that train I’ve got to hurry. Of course, as far as the matter of expense goes, Elizabeth, I’ll do my share.” “We are not paupers at New Moon,” said Aunt Elizabeth rather coldly. “Since it has fallen to me to take her, I shall do all that is necessary, Wallace. I do not shirk my duty.” “ am her duty,” thought Emily. “Father said nobody ever liked a duty. So Aunt Elizabeth will never like me.” I “You’ve got more of the Murray pride than all the rest of us put together, Elizabeth,” laughed Uncle Wallace. They all followed him out—all except Aunt Laura. She came up to Emily, standing alone in the middle of the room, and drew her into her arms. “I’m so glad, Emily—I’m so glad,” she whispered. “Don’t fret, dear child. I love you already—and New Moon is a nice place, Emily.” “It has—a pretty name,” said Emily, struggling for self-control. “I’ve—always hoped—I could go with you, Aunt Laura. I think I am going to cry—but it’s not because I’m sorry I’m going there. My manners are as bad as you may think, Aunt Laura—and I wouldn’t have listened last night if I’d known it was wrong.” not “Of course you wouldn’t,” said Aunt Laura. “But I’m not a Murray, you know.” Then Aunt Laura said a queer thing—for a Murray. “Thank heaven for that!” said Aunt Laura. Cousin Jimmy followed Emily out and overtook her in the little hall. Looking carefully around to ensure privacy, he whispered, “Your Aunt Laura is a great hand at making an apple turnover, pussy.” Emily thought apple turnover sounded nice, though she did not know what it was. She whispered back a question which she would never have dared ask Aunt Elizabeth or even Aunt Laura. “Cousin Jimmy, when they make a cake at New Moon, will they let me scrape out the mixing-bowl and eat the scrapings?” “Laura will—Elizabeth won’t,” whispered Cousin Jimmy solemnly. “And put my feet in the oven when they get cold? And have a cooky before I go to bed?” “Answer same as before,” said Cousin Jimmy. “ recite my poetry to you. It’s very few people I do that for. I’ve composed a thousand poems. They’re not written down—I carry them here.” Cousin Jimmy tapped his forehead. I’ll “Is it very hard to write poetry?” asked Emily, looking with new respect at Cousin Jimmy. “Easy as rolling off a log if you can find enough rhymes,” said Cousin Jimmy. They all went away that morning except the New Moon people. Aunt Elizabeth announced that they would stay until the next day to pack up and take Emily with them. “Most of the furniture belongs to the house,” she said, “so it won’t take us long to get ready. There are only Douglas Starr’s books and his few personal belongings to pack.” “How shall I carry my cats?” asked Emily anxiously. Aunt Elizabeth stared. “Cats! You’ll take no cats, miss.” “Oh, I must take Mike and Saucy Sal!” cried Emily wildly. “I can’t leave them behind. I can’t live without a cat.” “Nonsense! There are barn cats at New Moon, but they are never allowed in the house.” “Don’t you like cats?” asked Emily wonderingly. “No, I do .” not “Don’t you like the of a nice, soft, fat cat?” persisted Emily. feel “No; I would as soon touch a snake.” “There’s a lovely old wax doll of your mother’s up there,” said Aunt Laura. “I’ll dress it up for you.” “I don’t like dolls—they can’t talk,” exclaimed Emily. “Neither can cats.” “Oh, can’t they! Mike and Saucy Sal can. Oh, I take them. Oh, , Aunt Elizabeth. I those cats. And they’re the only things left in the world that love me. Please!” must please love “What’s a cat more or less on two hundred acres?” said Cousin Jimmy, pulling his forked beard. “Take ’em along, Elizabeth.” Aunt Elizabeth considered for a moment. She couldn’t understand why anybody should want a cat. Aunt Elizabeth was one of those people who never do understand anything unless it is told them in plain language and hammered into their heads. And they understand it only with their brains and not with their hearts. then “You may take of your cats,” she said at last, with the air of a person making a great concession. “One—and no more. No, don’t argue. You may as well learn first as last, Emily, that when say a thing I mean it. That’s enough, Jimmy.” one I Cousin Jimmy bit off something he had tried to say, stuck his hands in his pockets, and whistled at the ceiling. “When she won’t, she won’t—Murray like. We’re all born with that kink in us, small pussy, and you’ll have to put up with it—more by token that you’re full of it yourself, you know. Talk about your not being Murray! The Starr is only skin deep with you.” “It isn’t—I’m Starr—I to be,” cried Emily. “And, oh, how can I choose between Mike and Saucy Sal?” all want This was indeed a problem. Emily wrestled with it all day, her heart bursting. She liked Mike best—there was no doubt of that; but she leave Saucy Sal to Ellen’s tender mercies. Ellen had always hated Sal; but she rather liked Mike and she would be good to him. Ellen was going back to her own little house in Maywood village and she wanted a cat. At last in the evening, Emily made her bitter decision. She would take Saucy Sal. couldn’t “Better take the Tom,” said Cousin Jimmy. “Not so much bother with kittens you know, Emily.” “Jimmy!” said Aunt Elizabeth sternly. Emily wondered over the sternness. Why weren’t kittens to be spoken of? But she didn’t like to hear Mike called “the Tom.” It sounded insulting, someway. And she didn’t like the bustle and commotion of packing up. She longed for the old quiet and the sweet, remembered talks with her father. She felt as if he had been thrust far away from her by this influx of Murrays. “What’s this?” said Aunt Elizabeth suddenly, pausing for a moment in her packing. Emily looked up and saw with dismay that Aunt Elizabeth had in her hands the old account book—that she was opening it—that she was in it. Emily sprang across the floor and snatched the book. reading “You mustn’t read that, Aunt Elizabeth,” she cried indignantly, “that’s mine,—my own .” private property “Hoity-toity, Miss Starr,” said Aunt Elizabeth, staring at her, “let me tell you that I have a right to read your books. I am responsible for you now. I am not going to have anything hidden or underhanded, understand that. You have evidently something there that you are ashamed to have seen and I mean to see it. Give me that book.” “I’m ashamed of it,” cried Emily, backing away, hugging her precious book to her breast. “But I won’t let you—or —see it.” not anybody Aunt Elizabeth followed. “Emily Starr, do you hear what I say? Give me that book—at .” once “No—no!” Emily turned and ran. She would let Aunt Elizabeth see that book. She fled to the kitchen stove—she whisked off a cover—she crammed the book into the glowing fire. It caught and blazed merrily. Emily watched it in agony. It seemed as if part of herself were burning there. But Aunt Elizabeth should never see it—see all the little things she had written and read to Father—all her fancies about the Wind Woman, and Emily-in-the-glass—all her little cat dialogues—all the things she had said in it last night about the Murrays. She watched the leaves shrivel and shudder, as if they were sentient things, and then turn black. A line of white writing came out vividly on one. “Aunt Elizabeth is very cold and .” What if Aunt Elizabeth had seen ? What if she were seeing it now! Emily glanced apprehensively over her shoulder. No, Aunt Elizabeth had gone back to the room and shut the door with what, in anybody but a Murray, would have been called a bang. The account book was a little heap of white film on the glowing coals. Emily sat down by the stove and cried. She felt as if she had lost something incalculably precious. It was terrible to think that all those dear things were gone. She could never write them again—not just the same; and if she could she wouldn’t dare—she would never dare to write again, if Aunt Elizabeth must see everything. Father never insisted on seeing them. She liked to read them to —but if she hadn’t wanted to do it he would never have made her. Suddenly Emily, with tears glistening on her cheeks, wrote a line in an imaginary account book. never hawty that anything him “Aunt Elizabeth is cold and hawty; and she is .” not fair Next morning, while Cousin Jimmy was tying the boxes at the back of the double-seated buggy, and Aunt Elizabeth was giving Ellen her final instructions, Emily said good-bye to everything—to the Rooster Pine and Adam-and-Eve—“they’ll miss me so when I’m gone; there won’t be any one here to love them,” she said wistfully—to the spider crack in the kitchen window—to the old wing-chair—to the bed of striped grass—to the silver birch-ladies. Then she went upstairs to the window of her own old room. That little window had always seemed to Emily to open on a world of wonder. In the burned account book there had been one piece of which she was especially proud. “A deskripshun of the vew from my Window.” She had sat there and dreamed; at night she used to kneel there and say her little prayers. Sometimes the stars shone through it—sometimes the rain beat against it—sometimes the little greybirds and swallows visited it—sometimes airy fragrances floated in from apple and lilac blossom—sometimes the Wind Woman laughed and sighed and sang and whistled round it—Emily had heard her there in the dark nights and in wild, white winter storms. She did not say good-bye to the Wind Woman, for she knew the Wind Woman would be at New Moon, too; but she said good-bye to the little window and the green hill she had loved, and to her fairy-haunted barrens and to little Emily-in-the-glass. There might be another Emily-in-the-glass at New Moon, but she wouldn’t be the same one. And she unpinned from the wall and stowed away in her pocket the picture of the ball dress she had cut from a fashion sheet. It was such a wonderful dress—all white lace and wreaths of rosebuds, with a long, long, train of lace flounces that must reach clear across a room. Emily had pictured herself a thousand times wearing that dress, sweeping, a queen of beauty, across a ballroom floor. Downstairs they were waiting for her. Emily said good-bye to Ellen Greene rather indifferently—she had never liked Ellen Greene at any time, and since the night Ellen had told her her father was going to die she had hated and feared her. Ellen amazed Emily by bursting into tears and hugging her—begging her not to forget her—asking her to write to her—calling her “my blessed child.” “I am not your blessed child,” said Emily, “but I will write to you. And will you be very good to Mike?” “I b’lieve you feel worse over leaving that cat than you do over leaving me,” sniffed Ellen. “Why, of course I do,” said Emily, amazed that there could be any question about it. It took all her resolution not to cry when she bade farewell to Mike, who was curled up on the sun-warm grass at the back door. “Maybe I’ll see you again sometime,” she whispered as she hugged him. “I’m sure pussy cats go to heaven.” good Then they were off in the double-seated buggy with its fringed canopy, always affected by the Murrays of New Moon. Emily had never driven in anything so splendid before. She had never had many drives. Once or twice her father had borrowed Mr. Hubbard’s old buckboard and grey pony and driven to Charlottetown. The buckboard was rattly and the pony slow, but Father had talked to her all the way and made the road a wonder. Cousin Jimmy and Aunt Elizabeth sat in front, the latter very imposing in black lace bonnet and mantle. Aunt Laura and Emily occupied the seat behind, with Saucy Sal between them in a basket, shrieking piteously. Emily glanced back as they drove up the grassy lane, and thought the little, old, brown house in the hollow had a broken-hearted look. She longed to run back and comfort it. In spite of her resolution, the tears came into her eyes; but Aunt Laura put a kid-gloved hand across Sal’s basket and caught Emily’s in a close, understanding squeeze. “Oh, I just love you, Aunt Laura,” whispered Emily. And Aunt Laura’s eyes were very, very blue and deep and kind. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. L. M. Montgomery (2020). Emily of New Moon. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/61236/pg61236-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html.

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