The Prisoner in the Opal by A.E.W. Mason — Read

Domenique Pouchette, a big, formal man with a square brown beard, dressed in an old-fashioned frock coat of broadcloth, bowed from the doorway, relieved Moreau of a small black brief bag, and placed it upon the table. Moreau, then, at a nod from Hanaud went out of the room and closed the door. Domenique Pouchette took a small key from his waistcoat pocket, unlocked the bag and lifted out of it a jewel case. He looked in turn at Hanaud, at Ricardo, at Dennis Blackett, and then without any hesitation offered the case to the last of the three. The case was worn, the leather here and there broken, and for a moment or two Blackett turned it over in his hands, shrinking from opening it. He unfastened the catch with an abrupt and violent movement, and taking out the necklace let the smooth, softly-gleaming beads slip between his fingers. He was smiling now rather bitterly. They were the twenty-one years of his life. Each bead celebrated some shrewd stroke of business, brought to its culmination after much labour, and all for the sake of the idolised daughter.

"Yes, this is the string. Here is the diamond clasp with her initial E"; and he dropped it on the table and looked at it as though it were an iridescent adder with a forked tongue ready to strike.