"It was high noon in the city of Antwerp. From slender steeples
floated the mellow music of the Flemish bells, and in the spire of the
great cathedral across the square the cracked chimes clashed discords
until my ears ached.

"When the fiend in the cathedral had jerked the last tuneless clang
from the chimes, I removed my fingers from my ears and sat down at one
of the iron tables in the court. A waiter, with his face shaved blue,
brought me a bottle of Rhine wine, a tumbler of cracked ice, and a
siphon.

"'Does monsieur desire anything else?' he inquired.

"'Yes--the head of the cathedral bell-ringer; bring it with vinegar
and potatoes,' I said, bitterly. Then I began to ponder on my
great-aunt and the Crimson Diamond.

"The white walls of the Hôtel St. Antoine rose in a rectangle around
the sunny court, casting long shadows across the basin of the
fountain. The strip of blue overhead was cloudless. Sparrows twittered
under the eaves the yellow awnings fluttered, the flowers swayed in
the summer breeze, and the jet of the fountain splashed among the
water-plants. On the sunny side of the piazza the tables were vacant;
on the shady side I was lazily aware that the tables behind me were
occupied, but I was indifferent as to their occupants, partly because
I shunned all tourists, partly because I was thinking of my
great-aunt.