I think that this day was more crowded with events than any other I can remember. At a little after five o’clock, Lord Chiltern and I were admitted to the vaults of William Beacon’s Bank in Piccadilly, where we stood about waiting for Lewis. The manager, Mr. Sumner, is a timid, mouse-like little man, and has always stood in awe of Lord Chiltern, and perhaps even more of the Muscovy Diamond, the royal stone shining so splendidly in the darkness of the vaults down beneath him. Whenever it’s viewed by any of the numerous people who are everlastingly wanting to look at it for one purpose or another — or no purpose at all — the little man jumps about darting suspicious glances at the very chairs. After the great robbery of the Bank of Wales last year, he told me he hadn’t slept well for weeks.
