Real Russian sable, dark, and well silvered, would be very
valuable."
"How much would one be worth?"
"Nobody can tell unless they can see it. It is all in the matching."
For a full minute Wentworth studied the face across the little fire,
the face with the unkempt beard, and the far-off, pondering eyes.
"I have a Russian sable coat," ventured Wentworth.
The factor's clerk gazed at him with unwinking blue eyes, and the head
wagged slowly. "No. Russian sable is woman's fur. They do not make
men's coats of Russian sable."
"But this is a woman's coat," explained Wentworth. "I got it in Russia
when I was in the Army. She was a Russian princess and I helped her
escape from the country at great risk to myself. It was in the winter,
in the dead of night, and a terrible blizzard was raging. When she
safely crossed the border she thanked me with tears in her eyes and
begged me to take her coat in payment, as she had no money. I refused,
but she tossed it into my arms, and disappeared into the night."
"Maybe she died in the storm without her coat."
"Why, no--you see, she had--that is, I had arranged for a car--a
sleigh, I mean, to meet her there with plenty of robes. But what I
want to get at, is this. If I show you this coat will you promise not
to say a word to Murchison about it? I do not want him to know I have
it. He would want to buy it, and he is my friend and I do not want to
refuse him.
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