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pounding coming from the back room. At least to Timor’s ears it sounded discouraged. The place, he saw, was still unfinished inside. His glance took in the clutter of boxes filled with mineral specimens and souvenirs, the bare shelves, and the empty showcase. Was Nathaniel Battle packing up to leave? It looked that way.
    He cleared his throat. “Mr. Battle?” he called.
    The pounding stopped. A very lean, very brown, and very intense looking young man in rumpled khakis appeared in the opening at the left of the showcase. Black eyes in a face like an angry hawk’s looked down at him.
    â€œYes?”
    In spite of the eyes and the sharpness of the voice, Timor’s uncertainty vanished. He felt a kinship with Nathaniel Battle. And because his mind worked in odd ways, he suddenly found himself saying, “Wiley told me a lot about you. You’re half Cherokee, aren’t you?”
    It wasn’t at all what he had intended to say, and he knew it was impolite. But the words were out before he could stop them.
    â€œI am,” replied Nathaniel, almost angrily. “What about it?”
    â€œThen we’re almost alike,” said Timor, smiling. “My mother was Indonesian. I’m Timor Hamilton.”
    â€œI’ll be jiggered!” Nathaniel came from behind the showcase and extended a lean brown hand. “Pardon me for snapping at you. I’m half Irish, you see, and this morning the Irish has got me down.” He paused. “So your name’s Timor. H’mm. That’s the Malay word for east.”
    â€œHow did you know?” Timor exclaimed.
    â€œOught to. I was stationed out there with an army detachment. They spoke a different language everywhere I went, but I found if I learned a little everyday Malay I could get along all the way from Singapore to New Guinea.” Nathaniel paused again, and raised one eyebrow. He said quietly, “Something tells me you came here to talk about Wiley.”
    â€œYes, sir. Do—do you really believe he robbed you?”
    Nathaniel looked at him sharply. Slowly he shook his head. “My eyes told me he did. Other eyes insisted he did. But this part of me,”—he placed a finger over his heart—“this part of me says he didn’t. Wiley was my friend. He lent me money to help me get started here—sold all his ginseng, and even borrowed some extra; I suspect it was from your uncle. Anyway, how could a friend like that turn around and rob me?”
    â€œHe couldn’t. Not Wiley.”
    â€œI’m glad to hear you say that, Timor—or do they call you Tim?”
    â€œNearly everyone calls me Tim.”
    â€œO.K., Tim. Anyway, I’ve been doing some thinking since it happened, keeping my eyes open and my mouth shut. If I didn’t have to be out of here next week …”
    â€œNext week!”
    â€œYes—unless I can raise a lot of money in a hurry, Or find what was stolen. Nearly everything I owned—and a lot I didn’t own—was inside that tin box. I suppose you know what it held.”
    â€œThe paper said it contained one of the most valuable sapphires ever found in the mountains, as well as a lot of other gems.”
    â€œThat’s right. The other stones were mine, but the sapphire wasn’t. The owners—they’re the Connors who have that new mine south of here—the Connors turned it over to me to cut, and then sell for them.”
    â€œYou—you cut stones, Mr. Battle?”
    â€œOf course. You can’t tell anything about a sapphire until it’s cut; this one had a star. Tim, we seem to be two of a kind, so why don’t you call me Nathaniel?”
    Timor smiled. “Thank you. I will.”
    â€œAs I was saying, I had a buyer for that sapphire, a gem specialist I’ve sold a lot of things to. He was driving in that night to look at it.” Nathaniel paused, and his lean jaws knotted. “If I don’t pay for