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THE DIAMOND MAKER
Some business had detained me in Chancery Lane nine in the
evening, and thereafter, having some inkling of a headache, I was
disinclined either for entertainment or further work. So much of
the sky as the high cliffs of that narrow canon of traffic left
visible spoke of a serene night, and I determined to make my way
down to the Embankment, and rest my eyes and cool my head by
watching the variegated lights upon the river. Beyond comparison
the night is the best time for this place; a merciful darkness
hides the dirt of the waters, and the lights of this transitional
age, red glaring orange, gas-yellow, and electric white, are set in
shadowy outlines of every possible shade between grey and deep
purple. Through the arches of Waterloo Bridge a hundred points of
light mark the sweep of the Embankment, and above its parapet rise
the towers of Westminster, warm grey against the starlight. The
black river goes by with only a rare ripple breaking its silence,
and disturbing the reflections of the lights that swim upon its
surface.
"
A warm night," said a voice at my side.
I turned my head, and saw the profile of a man who was leaning
over the parapet beside me. It was a refined face, not unhandsome,
though pinched and pale enough, and the coat collar turned up and
pinned round the throat marked his status in life as sharply as a
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