Title: Hagar of the Pawn-Shop
Author: Fergus Hume
* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *
eBook No.: 0606101.txt
Language: English
Date first posted: August 2006
Date most recently updated: August 2006

This eBook was produced by: Richard Scott

Project Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printed editions
which are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright notice
is included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particular
paper edition.

Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the
copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this
file.

This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg of Australia License which may be viewed online at
http://gutenberg.net.au/licence.html


To contact Project Gutenberg of Australia go to http://gutenberg.net.au


Hagar of the Pawn-Shop
Fergus Hume



CHAPTER I. THE COMING OF HAGAR.



JACOB DIX was a pawnbroker, but not a Jew, notwithstanding his
occupation and the Hebraic sound of his baptismal name. He was so old
that no one knew his real age; so grotesque in looks that children
jeered at him in the streets; so avaricious that throughout the
neighborhood he was called "Skinflint." If he possessed any hidden
good qualities to counterbalance his known bad ones, no person had
ever discovered them, or even had taken the trouble to look for them.
Certainly Jacob, surly and uncommunicative, was not an individual
inclined to encourage uninvited curiosity. In his pawn-shop he lived
like an ogre in a fairy-tale castle, and no one ever came near him
save to transact business, to wrangle during the transaction thereof,
and to curse him at its conclusion. Thus it may be guessed that Jacob
drove hard bargains.

The pawn-shop--situated in Carby's Crescent, Lambeth--furthermore
resembled an ogre's castle inasmuch as, though not filled with dead
men's bones, it contained the relics and wreckage, the flotsam and
jetsam, of many lives, of many households. Placed in the center of the
dingy crescent, it faced a small open space, and the entrance of the
narrow lane which led therefrom to the adjacent thoroughfare. In its
windows--begrimed with the dust of years--a heterogeneous mixture of
articles was displayed, ranging from silver teapots to well-worn
saucepans; from gold watches to rusty flatirons; from the chisel of a
carpenter to the ivory framed mirror of a fashionable beauty. The
contents of Dix's window typified in little the luxury, the meanness,
the triviality and the decadence of latter-day civilization.

There was some irony, too, in the disposition of incongruous articles;
for the useful and useless were placed significantly in proximity, and
the trifles of frivolity were mingled with the necessaries of life.
Here a Dresden china figure, bright-hued and dainty, simpered
everlastingly at a copper warming-pan; there a silver-handled dagger
of the Renaissance lay with a score of those cheap dinner-knives whose
bluntness one execrates in third-rate restaurants. The bandaged hand
of a Pharaohonic mummy touched an agate saucer holding defaced coins
of all ages, of all nations. Watches, in alternate rows of gold and
silver, dangled over fantastic temples and ships of ivory carved by
laborious Chinese artificers. On a square of rich brocade, woven of
silks, multi-colored as a parrot's plumage, were piled in careless
profusion medals, charms, old-fashioned rings set with dim gems, and
the frail glass bangles of Indian nautch-girls. A small cabinet of
Japanese lacquer, black, with grotesque gilded figures thereon;
talismans of coral from Southern Italy, designed to avert the evil
eye; jeweled pipes of Turkey, set roughly with blue turquoise stones;
Georgian caps with embroideries of tarnished gold; amulets, earrings,
bracelets, snuff-boxes and mosaic brooches from Florence---all these
frivolities were thrown the one on top of the other, and all were
overlaid with fine gray dust. Wreckage of many centuries; dry bones of
a hundred social systems, dead or dying! What a commentary on the
durability of empire--on the inherent pride of pigmy man!

Within doors the shop was small and dark. A narrow counter, running
lengthways, divided the whole into two parts. On the side nearest the
entrance three wooden screens by their disposition formed four sentry-
boxes, into which customers stepped when bent on business. Jacob,
wizen, cunning, and racked by an eternal cough, hovered up and down
the space within the counter, wrangling incessantly with his
customers, and cheating them on every occasion. He never gave the
value of a pawned article: he fought over every farthing; and even
when he obtained the goods at his own price he grudged payment; for
every coin he put down was a drop of blood wrung from his withered
heart. He rarely went outside the shop; he never mingled with his
fellow-creatures; and, the day's chicanery ended, he retired
invariably into a gloomy back parlor, the principal adornment of which
was a gigantic safe built into the wall. Here he counted his gains,
and saw doubtful customers not receivable in the shop, who came by
stealth to dispose of stolen goods. Here, also, in his lighter
moments, he conversed with the only friend he possessed in Carby's
Crescent--or, indeed, in London. Jacob was in no danger of becoming a
popular idol.

This particular friend was a solicitor named Vark, who carried on a
shady business, in a shady manner, for shady clients. His name--as he
declared himself--proved him to be of Polish descent; but it was
commonly reported in the neighborhood that Vark was made to rhyme with
shark, as emblematic of the estimation in which he was held. He was
hated only one degree less than Jacob, and the two,--connected
primarily as lawyer and client,--later on, had struck up a mistrustful
friendship by reason of their mutual reputation and isolation. Neither
one believed in the other; each tried to swindle on his own account,
and never succeeded; yet the two met nightly and talked over their
divers rascalities in the dingy parlor, with a confidence begotten by
an intimate knowledge of each other's character. The reputations of
both were so bad that the one did not dare to betray the other. Only
on this basis is honor possible among thieves.

Late one foggy November night Jacob was seated with his crony over a
pinched little fire which burnt feebly in a rusty iron grate. The old
pawnbroker was boiling some gruel, and Vark, with his own private
bottle of gin beside him, was drinking a wineglass of it, mixed
sparingly with water. Mr. Dix supplied this latter beverage, as it
cost nothing, but Vark--on an understanding which dated from the
commencement of their acquaintance--always brought his own liquor. A
gutterring candle in a silver candlestick--a pawned article--was
placed on the deal table, and gave forth a miserable light. The fog
from without had percolated into the room, so that the pair sat in a
kind of misty atmosphere, hardly illuminated by the farthing dip. Such
discomfort, such squalor, was only possible in a penurious
establishment like that of Jacob.

Vark was a little, lean, wriggling creature, more like a worm than a
man made in the image of his Creator. He had a sharp nose, a pimply
face, and two shifty, fishy eyes, green in hue like those of a cat.
His dress was of rusty black, with a small--very small--display of
linen; and he rubbed his hands together with a cringing bow every time
Jacob croaked out a remark between his coughs. Mr. Dix coughed in a
rich but faded dressing-gown, the relic of some dandy of the Regency;
and every paroxysm threatened to shake his frail form to pieces. But
the ancient was wonderfully tough, and clung to life with a kind of
desperate courage--though Heaven only knows what attraction the old
villain found in his squalid existence. This tenacity was not approved
of by Vark, who had made Jacob's will, and now wished his client to
die, so that he, as executor, might have the fingering of the wealth
which Dix was reported to possess. The heir to these moneys was
missing, and Vark was determined that he should never be found.
Meanwhile, with many schemes in his head, he cringed to Jacob, and
watched him cough over his gruel.

"Oh, dear, dear!" sighed Mr. Vark, speaking of his client in the third
person, as he invariably did, "how bad Mr. Dix's cough is to-night!
Why doesn't he try a taste of gin to moisten his throat?"

"Can't afford it!" croaked Jacob, pouring the gruel into a bowl.
"Gin's worth money, and money I ain't got. Make me a little present of
a glass, Mr. Vark, just to show that you're glad of my company."

Vark complied very unwillingly with this request, and poured as little
as he well could into the proffered bowl. "What an engaging man he
is!" said the lawyer, smirking--"so convivial, so full of spirits!"

"Your spirits!" retorted Jacob, drinking his gruel.

"What wit!" cried Vark, slapping his thin knees. "It's better than
Punch!"

"Gin-punch! gruel-punch!" said Dix, encouraged by this praise.

"He, he! I shall die with laughing! I've paid for worse than that at
the theater!"

"More fool you!" growled Jacob, taking up the tongs. "You shouldn't
pay for anything. Here, get out! I'm going to put out the fire. I
ain't going to burn this expensive coal to warm you. And the candle's
half-burnt too!" concluded Jacob, resentfully.

"I'm going--I'm going," said dark, slipping his bottle into his
pocket. "But to leave this pleasant company--what a wrench!"

"Here, stop that stuff, you inkpot! Has my son answered that
advertisement yet?"

"Mr. Dix's son hasn't sent a line to his sorrowing parent," returned
the lawyer. "Oh, what a hard-hearted offspring!"

"You're right there, man," muttered Jacob, gloomily. "Jimmy's left me
to die all alone, curse him!"

"Then why leave him your money?" said Vark, changing into the first
person, as he always did when business was being discussed.

"Why, you fool?--'cause he's Hagar's son--the bad son of a good
mother."

"Hagar Stanley--your wife--your gipsy wife! Hey, Mr. Dix?"

Jacob nodded. "A pure-blooded Romany. I met her when I was a Crocus."

"Crocus for Cheap Jack!" whined Vark; "the wit this man has!"

"She came along o' me to London when I set up here," continued Jacob,
without heeding the interruption, "and town killed her; she couldn't
breathe in bricks and mortar after the free air of the road. Dead--
poor soul!--dead; and she left me Jimmy--Jimmy, who's left me."

"What a play of fancy---" began Vark; when, seeing from the fierce
look of Jacob that compliments on the score of the dead wife were not
likely to be well received, he changed his tone. "He'll spend your
money, Mr. Dix."

"Let him! Hagar's dead, and when I die--let him."

"But, my generous friend, if you gave me more power as executor---"

"You'd take my money to yourself," interrupted Dix with irony. "Not if
I know it, you shark! Your duty is to administer the estate by law for
Jimmy. I pay you!"

"But so little!" whined Vark, rising; "if you---"

At this moment there came a sharp knock at the door of the shop, and
the two villains, always expectant of the police, stared at one
another, motionless with terror for the moment. Vark, who always took
care of his skin, snatched up his hat and made for the back-door,
whence, in the fog, he could gain his own house unquestioned and
unseen. Like a ghost he vanished, leaving Jacob motionless until
aroused by a repetition of the knock.

"Can't be peelers," he muttered, taking a pistol out of a cupboard,
"but it might be thieves. Well, if it is---" He smiled grimly, and
without finishing his sentence he shuffled along to the door, candle
in hand. A third knock came, as the clock in the shop struck eleven.

"Who is there, so late?" demanded Jacob, sharply.

"I am--Hagar Stanley!"

With a cry of terror, Mr. Dix let the candle fall, and in the darkness
dropped also. For the moment,--so much had his thoughts been running
on the dead wife,--the unexpected mention of her name made him believe
that she was standing rigid in her winding-sheet on the other side of
the door. One frail partition between the living and the dead! It was
terrible!

"The ghost of Hagar!" muttered Dix, white and shaking. "Why has she
come out of her grave?--and so expensive it was; bricked; with a
marble tombstone."

"Let me in! let me in, Mr. Dix!" cried the visitor, again rapping.

"She never called me by that name," said Jacob, reassured, and
scrambling for the candle; then, having lighted it, he added aloud: "I
don't know any one called Hagar Stanley."

"Open the door, and you will. I'm your wife's niece."

"Flesh and blood!" said the old man, fumbling at the lock--"I don't
mind that."

He flung wide the door, and out of the fog and darkness a young girl
of twenty years stepped into the shop. She was dressed in a dark red
garment made of some coarse stuff, and over this she wore a short
black cloak. Her hands were bare, and also her head, save for a
scarlet handkerchief, which was carelessly twisted round her
magnificent black hair. The face was of the true Romany type Oriental
in its contour and hue, with arched eyebrows over large dark eyes, and
a thin-lipped mouth beautifully shaped, under a delicately-curved
nose. Face and figure were those of a woman who needed palms and
desert sands and golden sunshine, hot and sultry, for an appropriate
background; yet this Eastern beauty appeared out of the fog like some
dead Syrian princess, and presented herself in all her rich loveliness
to the astonished eyes of the old pawnbroker.

"So you are the niece of my dead Hagar?" he said, staring earnestly at
her in the thin yellow light of the candle. "Yes, it's true. She
looked like you when I met her in the New Forest. What d'ye want?"

"Food and shelter," replied the girl, curtly. "But you'd better shut
the door; it might be bad for your reputation if any passer-by saw you
speaking to a woman at this time of night."

"My reputation!" chuckled Jacob, closing end bolting the door. "Lord!
that's past spoiling. If you knew how bad it is, you wouldn't come
here."

"Oh, I can look after myself, Mr. Dix, especially as you're old enough
to be my great-grandfather twice over."

"Come, come! Civil words, young woman!"

"I'm civil to those who are civil to me," retorted Hagar, taking the
candle out of her host's hands. "Go on, Mr. Dix, show me in; I'm
tired, and want to sleep. I'm hungry, and wish food. You must give me
bed and board."

"Infernal insolence, young woman! Why?"

"Because I'm kin to your dead Hagar."

"Aye, aye, there's something in that," muttered Dix, and dominated, in
spite of his inherent obstinacy, by the imperious spirit of the girl,
he led her into the dingy parlor. Here she removed her cloak and sat
down, while Jacob, in an unusual spirit of hospitality, induced by the
mention of his late wife, produced some coarse victuals.

Without a word he placed the food before his guest; without a word she
ate, and was refreshed. Jacob marveled at the self-possession of the
gipsy, and was rather pleased than otherwise with her bold coolness.
Only when she had finished the last scrap of bread and cheese did he
speak. His first remark was curt and rude--designedly so.

"You can't stay here!" said the amiable old man

The girl retorted in kind: "I can, and I shall, Mr. Dix."

"For what reason, you jade?"

"For several--and all good ones," said Hagar leaning her chin on her
hands and looking steadily at his wrinkled face. "I know all about you
from a Romany chal who was up here six months ago. Your wife is dead;
your son has left you; and here you live alone, disliked and hated by
all. You are old and feeble and solitary; but you are by marriage akin
to the gentle Romany. For that reason, and because I am of your dead
rani's blood, I have come to look after you."

"Jezebel! That is, if I'll let you!"

"Oh, you'll let me fast enough," replied the woman, carelessly. "You
are a miser, I have heard; so you won t lose the chance of getting a
servant for nothing."

"A servant! You?" said Dix, admiring her imperial air.

"Even so, Mr. Dix. I'll look after you and your house. I'll scrub and
cook and mend. If you'll teach me your trade, I'll drive a bargain
with any one--and as hard and fast a one as you could drive yourself.
And all these things I'll do for nothing."

"There's food and lodging, you hussy."

"Give me dry bread and cold water, your roof to cover me, and a bundle
of straw to sleep on. These won't cost you much, and I ask for nothing
more--Skinflint."

"How dare you call me that, you wild cat!"

"It's what they call you hereabouts," said Hagar with a shrug. "I
think it suits you. Well, Mr. Dix, I have made my offer."

"I haven't accepted it yet," snapped Jacob, puzzled by the girl. "Why
do you come to me? Why don't you stay with your tribe?"

"I can explain that in five minutes, Mr. Dix. We Stanleys are just now
in the New Forest. You know it?"

"Truly lass," said Dix, sadly. "'Twas there I met my Hagar."

"And it is from there that I, the second Hagar, come," replied the
girl. "I was with my tribe' and I was happy till Goliath came."

"Goliath?" inquired Jacob, doubtfully.

"He is half a Gorgio and half Romany--a red-haired villain, who chose
to fall in love with me. I hated him. I hate him still!"--the woman's
bosom rose and fell in short, hurried pantings--"and he would have
forced me to be his wife. Pharaoh--our king, you know--would have
forced me also to be this man's rani, so I had no one to protect me,
and I was miserable. Then I recalled what the chal had told me about
you who wed with one of us; so I fled hither for your protection, and
to be your servant."

"But Goliath--this red-haired brute?"

"He does not know where I have gone, he will never find me here. Let
me stay, Mr. Dix, and be your servant. I have nowhere to go to, no one
to seek, save you, the husband of the dead Hagar, after whom I am
named. Am I to stay or go, now that I have told you the truth?"

Jacob looked thoughtfully at the girl, and saw tears glistening in her
heavy eyelashes, although her pride kept them from falling. Moved by
her helplessness, mindful of the wife whom he had loved so well, and
alive to the advantage of possessing a white slave whom he could trust
the astute ancient made up his mind.

"Stay," said he, quietly. "I shall see if you will be useful to me--
useful and faithful, my girl so, bread and bed shall be yours."

"It's a bargain," said Hagar, with a sigh of relief. "And now, old
man, let me rest in peace, am weary, and have walked many a long
mile."

So in this fashion came Hagar to the pawnshop; and it was for this
reason that Vark, to his great astonishment, found a woman--and what
is more, a young and beautiful woman--established in the house of
Jacob Dix. The news affected the neighborhood like a miracle, and new
tales were repeated about Dix and his housekeeper, who, report said,
was no better than she should be. But Hagar did not mind evil tongues;
nor did the old man. Without a spark of love or affection between
them, they worked together on a basis of mutual interest; and all the
days that Jacob lived Hagar served him faithfully. Whereat Vark
wondered.

It was not an easy life for the girl. Jacob was a hard master, and
made her pay dearly for bed and board. Hagar scrubbed walls and
floors; she mended such pawned dresses as required attention; and
cooked the frugal meals of herself and master. The old pawnbroker
taught her how to depreciate articles brought to be pawned, how to
haggle with their owners, and how to wring the last sixpence out of
miserable wretches who came to redeem their pledges. In a short time
Hagar became as clever as Jacob himself, and he was never afraid to
trust her with the task of making bargains, or with the care of the
shop. She acquired a knowledge of pictures, gems, silverware, china--
in fact, all the information about such things necessary to an expert.
Without knowing it, the untaught gipsy girl became a connoisseur.

It required all Hagar's patience to bear cheerfully the lot which she
had chosen voluntarily. Her bed was hard, her food meager; and the old
man's sharp tongue was perpetually goading her by its bitterness.
Jacob, indeed,--sure of his slave, since she had no other roof save
his to cover her,--exercised all the petty arts of a tyrant. He vented
on her all the rage he felt against the son who had deserted him. Once
he went so far as to attempt a blow; but a single glance from the
fierce eyes of Hagar made him change his intention; and, cowed for
once in his tyranny, Jacob never lifted his hand again against her. He
saw plainly enough that if he once raised the devil in this child of
the free gipsy race, there would be no laying it again. But, actual
violence apart, Hagar's life was as miserable as a human being's well
could be.

Stifled in the narrow shop in the crowded neighborhood, she longed at
times for the free life of the road. Her thoughts recalled the green
woods, so cool and shady in summer; they dwelt on the brown heath
lonely in the starlight, with the red flare of the gipsy fire casting
fantastic shadows on caravan and tent. In the darkness of night she
would murmur the strange words of the "calo jib," like some
incantation to compel memory. To herself, while arranging the
curiosities in the shop window, she would sing fragments of Romany
songs set in minor keys. The nostalgia of the wilds, of the encampment
and the open road, tortured her in the heats of summer; and when
winter descended she longed or the chill breath of country winds
sweeping across moors laden with snow, over pools rigid in the cold
embrace of smooth and glassy ice. In the pawn-shop she was an exile
from her dream paradise of roaming liberty.

To make bad worse, Vark fell in love with her. For the first time in
his narrow, selfish life, a divine passion touched the gross soul of
the thieves' lawyer. Ravished by the dark loveliness of the girl,
dominated by her untamed spirit, astonished by her clear mind and
unerring judgment, Vark wished to possess this treasure. There was
also another reason for the offer of marriage which he made, and this
reason he put into words when he asked Hagar to become his wife. It
took Vark twelve months to make up his mind to this course; and his
wrath may be guessed when Hagar refused him promptly. The miserable
wretch could not believe that she was in earnest.

"Oh, dear, sweet Hagar!" he whined, trying to clasp her hand, "you
cannot have heard what your slave said!"

Hagar, who was mending some lace and minding the shop in the absence
of Jacob, looked up with a scornful smile. "What you call yourself in
jest," said she quietly, "I am in reality; I sold myself into bondage
for bare existence a year ago. Do you want to marry a slave, Mr.
Vark?"

"Yes, yes! Then you will no longer need to work like a servant."

"I would rather be a servant than your wife, Mr. Vark."

"The girl's mad! Why?"

"Because you are a scoundrel."

Vark grinned amiably, in no wise disturbed by this plain-speaking. "My
Cleopatra, we are all scoundrels in these parts. Jacob Dix is---"

"Is my master!" interrupted Hagar, sharply. "So leave him alone. But
this offer of yours, my friend. What benefit do you propose to gain if
I accept it? You're not asking me to be your wife without some
motive."

"Why, that's true enough, my beauty!" chuckled Vark. "Lord, how
cunning you are to guess! The motive is double: one part love---"

"We'll say nothing about that, man! You don't know what love is! The
other motive?"

"Money!" said Vark, curtly, and without wasting words.

"H'm!" replied Hagar, with irony. "Mr. Dix's money?"

"What penetration!" said the lawyer, slapping his knee. "My word,
here's intelligence!"

"We'll pass over the usual compliments, Mr. Vark. Well, how is Mr.
Dix's money to benefit you through me?"

"Why," said Vark, blinking his green eyes, "the old man's got a fancy
for you, my dear; and all the liking he had for me he's given to you.
Before you came, he made a will in favor of his lost son, and
appointed me executor. Now that he sees what a sharp one you are, he
has made a new will---"

"Leaving all the money to me, I suppose? That's a lie!"

"It is a lie," retorted Vark, "but one I wasn't going to tell you. No;
the money is still left to the son; but you are the executor under the
new will. Now d'ye see?"

"No," said Hagar, folding up her work, "I don't."

"Well, if I marry you, I'll administer the estate in your name---"

"For the benefit of the lost heir? Well?"

"That's just it," said Vark, laying a lean finger on her knee---"the
lost heir. Don't you understand? We needn't look for him, so we can
keep the moneys in our own hands, and have some fine pickings out of
the estate."

Hagar rose, and smiled darkly. "A nice little scheme, and worthy of
you," said she, contemptuously; "but there are two obstacles. I'm not
your wife, and I am an honest girl. Try some of your lady clients, Mr.
Vark. I'm not for sale!"

When she walked away Vark scowled. A scoundrel himself, he could not
understand this honesty which stood in the way of its own advancement.
Biting his fingers, he stared after Hagar, and wondered how he could
catch her in his net.

"If that old miser would only leave her his heiress!" he thought;
"she'd have no scruples about taking the money then; and if she had
the money, I'd force her to be my wife. But Jacob is set on giving all
his wealth to that infernal son of his, who so often wished his father
to die. Aha!" sighed Vark, rubbing his hands, "I wish I could prove
that he tried to kill the old man. Jacob wouldn't leave him a penny
then, and Hagar should have the money, and I would have her. What a
lovely dream! Why can't it come true?"

It was such a lovely dream, and offered such opportunities for
scoundrelly dealings, that Vark set to work at once to translate it
into actual facts. He had many of the letters and bills of the absent
Jimmy, who had been accustomed to come to him for the money refused by
the paternal Dix. Counting on the old man's death, Vark had lent the
son money for his profligacy at a heavy percentage, and intended to
repay himself out of the estate. Now that Hagar was to handle the
money instead of himself, he thought that there might be some
difficulty over his usury, owing to the girl's absurd honesty. He
therefore determined to give proofs to Jacob that the absent son had
designed to rid himself of a troublesome father by secret murder. Once
Dix got such an idea into his head, he might leave his wealth to
Hagar. The heiress would then be wooed and won by skilful, scheming
Mr. Vark. It was a beautiful idea, and quite simple.

Among his many shady clients Vark possessed one who was a clever
forger, and who occasionally retired to one of Her Majesty's prisons
for too frequently exercising his talents in that direction. At the
present moment he was at large. Vark gave him a bundle of Jimmy's
letters, and the draft of a memorandum which he wished to be imitated
in the handwriting of the absent heir. When this was ready, Vark
watched his opportunity and slipped it into a Chinese jar in the back
parlor, in which he knew Jimmy had been accustomed to keep tobacco.
This receptacle stood on a high shelf, and had not been touched by
Jacob since his son's departure. Vark, like the clever scoundrel he
was, ascertained this fact by the thick and undisturbed dust which
coated jar and shelf. The trap being thus prepared, it only remained
to lead Jacob into it; and this Mr. Vark arranged to do in the most
skilful manner. He quite counted on success, but one necessary element
thereto he overlooked, and that was the aid of Hagar. But as he had
designed the whole scheme primarily for her benefit, he never thought
she would refuse to forward its aim. Which blindness showed that he
was incapable of appreciating or even understanding the honesty of the
girl's character.

According to his custom, he came one evening to converse with Jacob.
The room with its solitary candle, the starved fire, and the foggy
atmosphere, were the same as on the night when Hagar had arrived, save
that now Hagar herself sat sewing by the table. She frowned when Vark
came cringing into the room, but beyond greeting him with a slight nod
she took no notice of the smiling scoundrel. Vark produced his bottle
of gin, and set down near the fire, opposite to Jacob, who on this
night looked very old and feeble. The old man was breaking up fast,
and was more querulous and crabbed than ever. As usual, he asked Vark
if Jimmy had answered the advertisement, and as usual he received a
negative reply. Jacob groaned.

"I'll die this winter," said he, with moody face, "and no one will be
by to close my eyes."

"What is this I hear Mr. Dix say!" cried Vark, smilingly. "He forgets
our beautiful Hagar."

"Hagar is all very well, but she is not Jimmy."

"Perhaps, if our dear friend knew all, he would be pleased that she
isn't."

Hagar looked up in surprise at the significant tones of Vark, and
Jacob scowled. "What d'ye mean, you shark?" he demanded, a light
coming into his faded eyes.

"Why," replied the lawyer, luring on the old pawnbroker, "Jimmy was a
scoundrel."

"I know that, man!" snapped Jacob.

"He wanted your money."

"I know that also."

"He wished for your death."

"It's probable he did," retorted Jacob, nodding; "but he was content
to let me take my own time to die."

"H'm! I'm not so sure of that!"

Guessing that Vark had some scheme in his head which he was striving
to bring to fulfilment, Hagar dropped her sewing, and looked sharply
at him. As Vark spoke she saw him glance at the Chinese jar, and
mentally wondered what possible connection that could have with the
subject of conversation. On this point she was soon enlightened.

"Vark," said Dix, seriously, "are you going to tell me that Jimmy
wished to kill me?"

The lawyer held up his hands in horror. "Oh, dear, that I should be so
misunderstood!" he said in a piteous tone. "Jimmy was not so bad as
that, my venerable friend. But if some one else had put you out of the
way, he would not have been sorry."

"Do you mean Hagar?"

"Let him dare to say so!" cried the girl, leaping to her feet with
flaming eyes. "I do not know your son, Mr. Dix."

"What!" said Vark, softly; "not red-haired Jimmy!"

Hagar sat down with a pale face. "Red-haired!" she muttered. "Goliath!
No, it is impossible!"

Vark looked at Hagar, and she stared back at him again. With the
approaching senility of old age, Jacob had ceased to take part in the
conversation, and was moodily staring at the miserable fire, a
trembling and palsied creature. The idea hinted at by Vark--that Hagar
had been employed by Jimmy to destroy him--so stupefied his brain that
he was incapable of even expressing an opinion. Seeing this, the
lawyer glided away from the dangerous topic, to carry out the second
part of his scheme.

"Oh, dear, dear!" he said, hunting in his pockets. "My pipe is empty,
and I have no tobacco with me."

"Then go without it, Mr. Vark!" said Hagar, sharply. "There's no
tobacco here."

"Oh, yes; I think in that jar," said the lawyer, pointing one lean
finger at the high shelf--"Jimmy's jar."

"Leave Jimmy's jar alone!" mumbled Jacob, savagely.

"What! will not Mr. Dix spare one tiny pipe of tobacco for his old
friend?" whined Vark, going towards the shelf. "Oh, I think so; I am
certain," and with this one of his long arms shot upwards to seize the
jar. Jacob rose unsteadily as Vark took down the article, and he
scowled fiercely at the daring of his visitor. Indifferent to what was
going on, Hagar continued her sewing.

"Leave that jar of Jimmy's alone, I tell you!" snarled Dix, seizing
the poker. "I'll break your fox's head if you don't!"

"Violence--and from gentle Mr. Dix!" cried Vark, still gripping the
jar. "Oh, no, no, not at all! If he---"

At this moment Jacob lost patience, and delivered a swinging blow at
the lawyer's head.

Ever watchful, Vark threw himself to one side, and the poker crashed
down on the jar, which he held in his hands. In a moment it lay in
fragments on the floor. A pile of broken china, a loose bit of dried
tobacco, and a carelessly folded paper.

"See what your angry passion has done!" said Vark, pointing
reproachfully to the débris. "You have broken poor Jimmy's jar!"

Jacob threw the poker inside the fender, and bent to pick up the
folded paper, which he opened in a mechanical manner. Always
methodical, Hagar went out of the room to fetch a dust-pan and broom.
Before she could return with them she was recalled by a cry from Vark;
and on rushing back she saw Jacob prone on the floor among the broken
china. He had fainted, and the paper was still clutched in his hand.

"Bring water--salts!" cried Vark, his eyes filled with a triumphant
light at the success of his plot. "My venerable friend is ill!"

"What have you been doing to him?" demanded Hagar, as she loosened the
scarf round the old man's neck.

"I? Nothing! He read that paper which fell out of the jar--Jimmy's
jar," added Vark, pointedly--"and went down like a ninepin!"

There was a jug of water on the table, used by Vark for diluting his
gin, so Hagar sprinkled the wrinkled face of her master with this
fluid, and slapped his hands. Vark looked on rather anxiously. He did
not wish the old man to die yet; and Jacob was a long time coming out
of his swoon.

"This paper made him faint," said Vark, removing it from Jacob's
feeble grasp. "Let us see what it says." He knew the contents quite
well, but nevertheless he read it aloud in a distinct voice for the
benefit of Hagar. Thus ran the words: "Memo.: To extract the juice of
foxglove--a poison difficult to trace--nothing can be proved after
death. Small doses daily in old man's tea or gruel. He would die in a
few weeks without suspicion. Will trust nobody, but will prepare drug
myself."

Hagar looked steadily at Vark. "Who wrote that," she said in a low
voice--"the old man's son or--you?"

"I?" cried Vark, with well-simulated indignation, "why should I write
it?--or how could I write it? The penmanship is that of James Dix; it
was concealed in his tobacco-jar; the jar was broken by accident; you
saw it yourself. Do you dare to----"

"Be silent!" interrupted Hagar, raising Jacob's head; "he is
reviving."

The old pawnbroker opened his eyes and looked wildly around. Little by
little his senses returned to him, and he sat up. Then, with the aid
of Hagar, he climbed into his chair, and began to talk and sigh.

"Little Jimmy wants me to die," he moaned, feebly. "Hagar's son wants
to kill me. Foxglove poison--I know it! Not a trace does it leave
after death. Hagar's son! Hagar's boy! Parricide! Parricide!" he
cried, shaking his two fists in the air.

"He wanted the money, you know," hinted Vark, softly.

"He shall not have the money!" said Jacob with unnatural energy. "I'll
make a new will--I'll disinherit him! Parricide! Hagar shall have
all!"

"I, Mr. Dix? No, no!"

"I say yes, you jade! Don't cross a dying man. I am dying; this is my
death-blow. O Jimmy, Jimmy! Wolf's cub! My will! my will!"

Pushing back Hagar, who strove to keep him in his chair, he snatched
up the candle and staggered towards the safe to get his will. While he
was looking within, Vark hastily fumbled in his capacious pockets.
When Jacob replaced the candle on the table, Hagar saw thereon a sheet
of paper covered with writing; also pen and ink. Jacob, clutching the
will, beheld these things also, and anticipated the question on
Hagar's lips.

"What's all this?"

"Your new will, Mr. Dix," explained Vark, smoothly. "I never did trust
your son, and I knew some day that you would find him out. I therefore
prepared a will by which you left everything to Hagar. Or," added the
lawyer, taking another document from his pocket, "if you chose to make
me your heir---"

"You? You? Never!" shrieked Jacob, shaking his fist. "All shall go to
Hagar, the namesake of my dead wife. I'm glad you had the sense to
see, that failing Jimmy, I'd leave her my money."

"Mr. Dix," interrupted Hagar, firmly, "I do not want your money; and
you have no right to rob your son of---"

"No right! No right, you jade! The money is mine! mine! It shall be
yours. I could have forgiven anything to Jimmy save his wish to poison
me."

"I don't believe he did wish it," said Hagar, bluntly.

"But the paper--his own handwriting!" cried Vark.

"Yes, yes; I know Jimmy's handwriting," said Jacob, the veins in his
forehead swelling with rage. "He is a devil--a par--par--!" The
violence of his temper was such that Hagar stepped forward to soothe
him. Even Vark felt alarmed.

"Keep quiet, you old fool!" said he, roughly; "you'll break a blood-
vessel! Here, sign this will. I'll witness it; and---" He stopped, and
whistled shrilly. A man appeared. "Here is another witness," said
Vark. "Sign!"

"It's a plot! a plot!" cried Hagar. "Don't sign, Mr. Dix. I don't want
the money."

"I'll make you take it, hussy!" snarled Jacob, crushing the will up in
his hand. "I shall leave it to you--not to Jimmy, the parricide. First
I'll destroy this." With the old will he approached the fire, and
threw it in. With the swiftness of a swallow Hagar darted past him and
snatched the document away from the flames before it was even
scorched. Jacob staggered back, mad with rage. Vark ground his teeth
at her opposition. The stranger witness looked stolidly on.

"No!" cried Hagar, slipping the will into her pocket. "You shall not
disinherit your son for me!"

"Give--give--will!" panted Jacob, and, almost inarticulate with rage,
he stretched out his hand. Before he could draw it back he reeled and
fell; a torrent of blood poured from his mouth. He was dead.

"You fool!" shrieked Vark, stamping. "You've lost a fortune!"

"I've saved my honesty!" retorted Hagar, aghast at the sudden death.
"Jimmy shall have the money."

"Jimmy! Jimmy!" sneered Vark, wrathfully. "Do you know who Jimmy is?"

"Yes--the rightful heir!"

"Quite so, you jade--and the red-haired Goliath who drove you to this
pawn-shop!"

"It is a lie!"

"It is the truth! You have robbed yourself to enrich your enemy!"

Hagar looked at the sneering face of Vark; at the dead man lying at
her feet; at the frightened countenance of the witness. She felt
inclined to faint, but, afraid lest Vark should steal the will which
she had in her pocket, she controlled herself with a violent effort.
Before Vark could stop her, she rushed out of the room, and into her
bedroom. The lawyer heard the key turn in the lock.

"I've lost the game," he said, moodily. "Go and get assistance, you
fool!" this to the witness; then, when the man had fled away, he
continued: "To give up all that money to the red-haired man whom she
hated! The girl's mad!"

But she was only honest; therefore her conduct was unintelligible to
Vark. So this was how Hagar Stanley came to take charge of the pawn-
shop in Carby's Crescent, Lambeth. Her adventures therein may be read
hereafter.



CHAPTER II. THE FIRST CUSTOMER AND THE FLORENTINE DANTE.



IT has been explained otherwhere how Hagar Stanley, against her own
interests, took charge of the pawn-shop and property of Jacob Dix
during the absence of the rightful heir. She had full control of
everything by the terms of the will. Jacob had made many good bargains
in his life, but none better than that which had brought him Hagar for
a slave--Hagar, with her strict sense of duty, her upright nature, and
her determination to act honestly, even when her own interests were at
stake. Such a character was almost unknown amongst the denizens of
Carby's Crescent.

Vark, the lawyer, thought her a fool. Firstly, because she refused to
make a nest-egg for herself out of the estate; secondly, because she
had surrendered a fine fortune to benefit a man she hated; thirdly,
because she declined to become Mrs. Vark. Otherwise she was sharp
enough--too sharp, the lawyer thought; for with her keen business
instinct, and her faculty for organizing and administering and
understanding, he found it impossible to trick her in any way. Out of
the Dix estate Vark received his due fees and no more, which position
was humiliating to a man of his intelligence.

Hagar, however, minded neither Vark nor any one else. She advertised
for the absent heir, she administered the estate, and carried on the
business of the pawn-shop; living in the back-parlor meanwhile, after
the penurious fashion of her late master. It had been a shock to her
to learn that the heir of the old pawnbroker w as none other than
Goliath, the red-haired suitor who had forced her to leave the gipsy
camp. Still, her honesty would not permit her to rob him of his
heritage; and she attended to his interests as though they were those
of the man she loved best in the world. When Jimmy Dix, alias Goliath,
appeared to claim the property, Hagar intended to deliver up all to
him, and to leave the shop as poor as when she entered it. In the mean
time, as the months went by and brought not the claimant, Hagar minded
the shop, transacted business, and drove bargains. Also, she became
the heroine of several adventures, such as the following:

During a June twilight she was summoned to the shop by a sharp
rapping, and on entering she found a young man waiting to pawn a book
which he held in his hand. He was tall, slim fair-haired and blue-
eyed, with a clever and intellectual face, lighted by rasher dreamy
eyes. Quick at reading physiognomies, Hagar liked his appearance at
the first glance, and, moreover, admired his good looks.

"I--I wish to get some money on this book," said the stranger in a
hesitating manner, a flush invading his fair complexion; "could you---
that is, will you---" He paused in confusion, and held out the book,
which Hagar took in silence.

It was an old and costly book, over which a bibliomaniac would have
gloated.

The date was that of the fourteenth century the printer a famous
Florentine publisher of that epoch; and the author was none other than
one Dante Alighieri, a poet not unknown to fame. In short, the volume
was a second edition of "La Divina Commedia," extremely rare, and
worth much money. Hagar, who had learnt many things under the able
tuition of Jacob, at once recognized the value of the book; but with
keen business instinct--notwithstanding her prepossession concerning
the young man---she began promptly to disparage it.

"I don't care for old books," she said, offering it back to him. "Why
not take it to a secondhand bookseller?"

"Because I don't want to part with it. At the present moment I need
money, as you can see from my appearance. Let me have five pounds on
the book until I can redeem it."

Hagar, who already had noted the haggard looks of this customer, and
the threadbare quality of his apparel, laid down the Dante with a
bang. "I can't give five pounds," she said bluntly. "The book isn't
worth it!"

"Shows how much you know of such things, my girl! It is a rare edition
of a celebrated Italian poet, and it is worth over a hundred pounds."

"Really?" said Hagar, dryly. "In that case, why not sell?"

"Because I don't want to. Give me five pounds."

"No; four is all that I can advance."

"Four ten," pleaded the customer.

"Four," retorted the inexorable Hagar. "Or else---"

She pushed the book towards him with one finger. Seeing that he could
get nothing more out of her, the young man sighed and relented. "Give
me the four pounds," he said, gloomily. "I might have guessed that a
Jewess would grind me down to the lowest."

"I am not a Jew, but a gipsy," replied Hagar, making out the ticket.

"A gipsy!" said the other, peering into her face. "And what is a
Romany lass doing in this Levitical tabernacle?"

"That's my business!" retorted Hagar, curtly. "Name and address?"

"Eustace Lorn, 4: Castle Road," said the young man, giving an address
near at hand. "But I say--if you are true Romany, you can talk the
calo jib."

"I talk it with my kind, young man; not with the Gentiles."

"But I am a Romany Rye."

"I'm not a fool, young man! Romany Ryes don't live in cities for
choice."

"Nor do gipsy girls dwell in pawn-shops, my lass!"

"Four pounds," said Hagar, taking no notice of this remark; "there it
is, in gold; your ticket also--number eight hundred and twenty. You
can redeem the book whenever you like, on paying six per cent.
interest. Good night."

"But I say'" cried Lorn, as he slipped money and ticket into his
pocket, "I want to speak to you, and---"

"Good night, sir," said Hagar, sharply, and vanished into the darkness
of the shop. Lorn was annoyed by her curt manner and his sudden
dismissal; but as there was no help for it, he walked out into the
street.

"What a handsome girl!" was his first thought; and "What a spitfire!"
was his second.

After his departure, Hagar put away the Dante, and, as it was late,
shut up the shop. Then she retired to the back-parlor to eat her
supper--dry bread-and-cheese with cold water--and to think over the
young man. As a rule, Hagar was far too self-possessed to be
impressionable; but there was something about Eustace Lorn--she had
the name pat---which attracted her not a little. From the short
interview she had not learnt much of his personality. He was poor,
proud, rather absent-minded; and--from the fact of his yielding to her
on the question of price--rather weak in character. Yet she liked his
face, the kindly expression of his eyes, and the sweetness of his
mouth. But after all he was only a chance customer; and--unless he
returned to redeem the Dante--she might not see him again. On this
thought occurring to her, Hagar called common-sense to her aid, and
strove to banish the young man's image from her mind. The task was
more difficult than she thought.

A week later, Lorn and his pawning of the book were recalled to her
mind by a stranger who entered the shop shortly after midday. This man
was short, stout, elderly and vulgar. He was much excited, and spoke
badly, as Hagar noted when he laid a pawn-ticket number eight hundred
and twenty on the counter.

"'Ere, girl," said he in rough tones, "gimme the book this ticket's
for."

"You come from Mr. Lorn?" asked Hagar, remembering the Dante.

"Yes; he wants that book. There's the brass. Sharp, now, young woman!"

Hagar made no move to get the volume, or even to take the money.
Instead of doing either, she asked a question. "Is Mr. Lorn ill, that
he could not come himself?" she demanded, looking keenly at the man's
coarse face.

"No; but I've bought the pawn-ticket off him. 'Ere, gimme the book!"

"I cannot at present," replied Hagar, who did not trust the looks of
this man, and who wished, moreover, to see Eustace again.

"Dash yer imperance! Why not?"

"Because you did not pawn the Dante; and as it is a valuable book, I
might get into trouble if I gave it into other hands than Mr. Lorn's."

"Well, I'm blest! There's the ticket!"

"So I see; but how do I know the way you became possessed of it?"

"Lorn gave it me," said the man, sulkily, "and I want the Dante!"

"I'm sorry for that," retorted Hagar, certain that all was not right,
"for no one but Mr. Lorn shall get it. If he isn't ill, let him come
and receive it from me."

The man swore and completely lost his temper--a fact which did not
disturb Hagar in the least. "You may as well clear out," she said,
coldly. "I have said that you shan't have the book, so that closes the
question."

"I'll call in the police!"

"Do so; there's a station five minutes' walk from here."

Confounded by her coolness, the man snatched up the pawn-ticket, and
stamped out of the shop in a rage. Hagar took down the Dante, looked
at it carefully, and considered the position. Clearly there was
something wrong, and Eustace was in trouble, else why should he send a
stranger to redeem the book upon which he set such store? In an
ordinary case, Hagar might have received the ticket and money without
a qualm, so long as she was acting rightly in a legal sense; but
Eustace Lorn interested her strangely--why, she could not guess--and
she was anxious to guard his interests. Moreover, the emissary
possessed an untrustworthy face, and looked a man capable, if not of
crime, at least of treachery. How he had obtained the ticket could
only be explained by its owner; so, after some cogitation, Hagar sent
a message to Lorn. The gist of this was, that he should come to the
pawn-shop after closing time.

All the evening Hagar anxiously waited for her visitor, and--such is
the inconsequence of maids--she was angered with herself for this very
anxiety. She tried to think that it was sheer curiosity to know the
truth of the matter that made her impatient for the arrival of Lorn;
but deep in her heart there lurked a perception of the actual state of
things. It was not curiosity so much as a wish to see the young man's
face again, to hear him speak, and feel that he was beside her. Though
without a chaperon, though not brought up under parental government,
Hagar had her own social code, and that a strict one. In this
instance, she thought that her mental attitude was unmaidenly and
unworthy of an unmarried girl. Hence, when Eustace made his appearance
at nine o'clock, she was brusque to the verge of rudeness.

"Who was that man you sent for your book?" she demanded, abruptly,
when Lorn was seated in the back-parlor.

"Jabez Treadle. I could not come myself, so I sent him with the
ticket. Why did you not give him the Dante?"

"Because I did not like his face, and I thought he might have stolen
the ticket from you. Besides, I"--here Hagar hesitated, for she was
not anxious to admit that her real reason had been a desire to see him
again--"besides, I don't think he is your friend," she finished,
lamely.

"Very probably he is not," replied Lorn, shrugging his shoulders. "I
have no friends."

"That is a pity," said Hagar, casting a searching glance at his
irresolute face. "I think you need friends--or, at all events, one
staunch one."

"May that staunch one be of your own sex," said Lorn, rather surprised
at the interest this strange girl displayed in his welfare---
"yourself, for instance?"

"If that could be so, I might give you unpalatable advice, Mr. Lorn."

"Such as--what?"

"Don't trust the man you sent here--Mr. Treadle. See, here is your
Dante, young man. Pay me the money, and take it away."

"I can't pay you the money, as I have none. I am as poor as Job, but
hardly so patient."

"But you offered the money through that Treadle creature."

"Indeed no!" explained Eustace, frankly. "I gave him the ticket, and
he wished to redeem the book with his own money."

"Did he really?" said Hagar, thoughtfully. "He does not look like a
student--as you do. Why did he want this book?"

"To find out a secret."

"A secret, young man--contained in the Dante?"

"Yes. There is a secret in the book which means money."

"To you or Mr. Treadle?" demanded Hagar.

Eustace shrugged his shoulders. "To either one of us who finds out the
secret," he said, carelessly. "But indeed I don't think it will ever
be discovered--at all events by me. Treadle may be more fortunate."

"If crafty ways can bring fortune, your man will succeed," said Hagar,
calmly. "He is a dangerous friend for you, that Treadle. There is
evidently some story about this Dante of yours which he knows, and
which he desires to turn to his own advantage. If the story means
money, tell it to me, and I may be able to help you to the wealth. I
am only a young girl, it is true, Mr. Lorn; still, I am old in
experience, and I may succeed where you fail."

"I doubt it," replied Lorn, gloomily; "still, it is kind of you to
take this interest in a stranger. I am much obliged to you, Miss?--"

"Call me Hagar," she interrupted, hastily. "I am not used to fine
titles."

"Well, then, Hagar," said he, with a kindly glance, "I'll tell you the
story of my Uncle Ben and his strange will."

Hagar smiled to herself. It seemed to be her fate to have dealings
with wills--first that of Jacob; now this of Lorn's uncle. However,
she knew when to hold her tongue, and saying nothing, she waited for
Eustace to explain. This he did at once.

"My uncle, Benjamin Gurth, died six months ago at the age of fifty-
eight," said he, slowly. "In his early days he had lived a roving
life, and ten years ago he came home with a fortune from the West
Indies."

"How much fortune?" demanded Hagar, always interested in financial
matters.

"That is the odd part about it," continued Eustace; "nobody ever knew
the amount of his wealth, for he was a grumpy old curmudgeon, who
confided in no one. He bought a little house and garden at Woking, and
there lived for the ten years he was in England. His great luxury was
books, and as he knew many languages--Italian among others--he
collected quite a polyglot library."

"Where is it now?"

"It was sold after his death along with the house and land. A man in
the city claimed the money and obtained it."

"A creditor. What about the fortune?"

"I'm telling you, Hagar, if you'll only listen," said Eustace,
impatiently. "Well, Uncle Ben, as I have said, was a miser. He hoarded
up all his moneys and kept them in the house, trusting neither to
banks nor investments. My mother was his sister, and very poor; but he
never gave her a penny, and to me nothing but the Dante, which he
presented in an unusual fit of generosity."

"But from what you said before," remarked Hagar, shrewdly, "it seemed
to me that he had some motive in giving you the Dante."

"No doubt," assented Eustace, admiring her sharpness.

"The secret of where his money is hidden is contained in that Dante."

"Then you may be sure, Mr. Lorn, that he intended to make you his
heir. But what has your friend Treadle to do with the matter?"

"Oh, Treadle is a grocer in Woking," responded Lorn. "He is greedy for
money, and knowing that Uncle Ben was rich, he tried to get the cash
left to him. He wheedled and flattered the old man; he made him
presents, and always tried to set him against me as his only
relative."

"Didn't I say the man was your enemy? Well, go on."

"There is little more to tell, Hagar. Uncle Ben hid his money away,
and left a will which gave it all to the person who should find out
where it was concealed. The testament said the secret was contained in
the Dante. You may be sure that Treadle visited me at once and asked
to see the book. I showed it to him, but neither of us could find any
sign in its pages likely to lead us to discover the hidden treasure.
The other day Treadle came to see the Dante again. I told him that I
had pawned it, so he volunteered to redeem it if I gave him the
ticket. I did so, and he called on you. The result you know."

"Yes; I refused to give it to him," said Hagar, "and I see now that I
was quite right to do so, as the man is your enemy. Well, Mr. Lorn, it
seems from your story that a fortune is waiting for you, if you can
find it."

"Very true; but I can't find it. There isn't a single sign in the
Dante by which I can trace the hiding-place."

"Do you know Italian?"

"Very well. Uncle Ben taught it to me."

"That's one point gained," said Hagar, placing the Dante on the table
and lighting another candle. "The secret may be contained in the poem
itself. However, we shall see. Is there any mark in the book--a
marginal mark, I mean?"

"Not one. Look for yourself."

The two comely young heads, one so fair, the other so dark, were bent
over the book in that dismal and tenebrous atmosphere. Eustace, the
weaker character of the twain, yielded in all things to Hagar. She
turned over page after page of the old Florentine edition, but not one
pencil or pen-mark marred its pure white surface from beginning to
end. From "L'Inferno" to "Il Paradiso" no hint betrayed the secret of
the hidden money. At the last page, Eustace, with a sigh, threw
himself back in his chair.

"You see, Hagar, there is nothing. What are you frowning at?"

"I am not frowning, but thinking, young man," was her reply. "If the
secret is in this book, there must be some trace of it. Now, nothing
appears at present, but later on---"

"Well," said Eustace, impatiently, "later on?

"Invisible ink."

"Invisible ink!" he repeated, vaguely. "I don't quite understand."

"My late master," said Hagar, without emotion, "was accustomed to deal
with thieves, rogues, end vagabonds. Naturally, he had many secrets,
and sometimes by force of circumstances, he had to trust these secrets
to the post. Naturally, also, he did not wish to risk discovery, so
when he sent a letter, about stolen goods for instance, he always
wrote it in lemon-juice."

"In lemon-juice! And what good was that?"

"It was good for invisible writing. When the letter was written, it
looked like a blank page. No one, you understand, could read what was
set out, for to the ordinary eye there was no writing at all."

"And to the cultured eye?" asked Eustace, in ironical tones.

"It appeared the same--a blank sheet," retorted Hagar. "But then the
cultured mind came in, young man. The person to whom the letter was
sent warmed the seeming blank page over the fire, when at once the
writing appeared, black and legible."

"The deuce!" Eustace jumped up in his excitement. "And you think---"

"I think that your late uncle may have adopted the same plan,"
interrupted Hagar, coolly, "but I am not sure. However, we shall soon
see." She turned over a page or two of the Dante. "It is impossible to
heat these over the fire," she added, "as the book is valuable, and we
must not spoil it; but I know of a plan."

W ith a confident smile she left the room and returned with a flat
iron, which she placed on the fire. While it was heating Eustace
looked at this quick-witted woman with admiration. Not only had she
brains, but beauty also; and, man-like, he was attracted by this last
in no small degree. Shortly he began to think that this strange and
unexpected friendship between himself and the pawnbroking gipsy beauty
might develop into something stronger and warmer. But here he sighed;
both of them were poor, so it would be impossible to---

"We will not begin at the beginning of the book," said Hagar, taking
the iron off the fire, and thereby interrupting his thoughts, "but at
the end."

"Why?" asked Eustace, who could see no good reason for this decision.

"Well," said Hagar, poising the heated iron over the book, "when I
search for an article I find it always at the bottom of a heap of
things I don't want. As we began with the first page of this book and
found nothing, let us start this time from the end, and perhaps we
shall learn your uncle's secret the sooner. It is only a whim of mine,
but I should like to satisfy it by way of experiment."

Eustace nodded and laughed, while Hagar placed a sheet of brown paper
over the last page of the Dante to preserve the book from being
scorched. In a minute she lifted the iron and paper, but the page
still showed no mark. With a cheerful air the girl shook her head, and
repeated the operation on the second page from the end. This time,
when she took away the brown paper, Eustace, who had been watching her
actions with much interest, bent forward with an ejaculation of
surprise. Hagar echoed it with one of delight; for there was a mark
and date on the page, half-way down, as thus:

Oh, abbondante grazia ond'io presumi Ficcar lo viso per la luce eterna
| 27.12. 38. Tanto, che la veduta vi consumi!

"There, Mr. Lorn!" cried Hagar, joyously--"there is the secret! My
fancy for beginning at the end was right. I was right also about the
invisible ink."

"You are a wonder!" said Eustace, with sincere admiration; "but I am
as much in the dark as ever. I see a marked line, and a date, the
twenty-seventh of December, in the year, I presume, one thousand eight
hundred and thirty-eight. We can't make any sense out of that
simplicity."

"Don't be in a hurry," said Hagar, soothingly; "we have found out so
much, we may learn more. First of all, please to translate those three
lines."

"Roughly," said Eustace, reading them, "they run thus: 'O abundant
grace, with whom I tried to look through the eternal light so much
that I lost my sight.'" He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't see how
that transcendentalism can help us."

"What about the date?"

"One thousand eight hundred and thirty-eight," said Lorn,
thoughtfully; "and this is ninety-six. Take one from the other, it
leaves fifty-eight, the age at which, as I told you before, my uncle
died. Evidently this is the date of his birth."

"A date of birth---l a line of Dante!" muttered Hagar. "I must say
that it is difficult to make sense out of it. Yet, in figures and
letters, I am sure the place where the money is concealed is told."

"Well," remarked Eustace, giving up the solution of this problem in
despair, "if you can make out the riddle it is more than I can."

"Patience, patience!" replied Hagar, with a nod. "Sooner or later we
shall find out the meaning. Could you take me to see your uncle's
house at Woking?"

"Oh, yes; it is not yet let, so we can easily go over it. But will you
trouble about coming all that way with me?"

"Certainly! I am anxious to know the meaning of this line and date.
There may be something about your uncle's house likely to give a clue
to its reading. I shall keep the Dante, and puzzle over the riddle;
you can call for me on Sunday, when the shop is closed, and we shall
go to Woking together."

"O Hagar! how can I ever thank---"

"Thank me when you get the money, and rid yourself of Mr. Treadle!"
said Hagar, cutting him short. "Besides, I am only doing this to
satisfy my own curiosity."

"You are an angel!"

"And you a fool, who talks nonsense!" said Hagar, sharply. "Here is
your hat and cane. Come out this way by the back. I have an ill enough
name already, without desiring a fresh scandal. Good night."

"But may I say---"

"Nothing, nothing!" retorted Hagar, pushing him out of the door. "Good
night."

The door snapped to sharply, and Lorn went out into the hot July night
with his heart beating and his blood aflame. He had seen this girl
only twice, yet, with the inconsiderate rashness of youth, he was
already in love with her. The beauty and kindness and brilliant mind
of Hagar attracted him strongly; and she had shown him such favor that
he felt certain she loved him in return. But a girl out of a pawn-
shop! He had neither birth nor money, yet he drew back from mating
himself with such a one. True, his mother was dead, and he was quite
alone in the world--alone and poor. Still, if he found his uncle's
fortune, he would be rich enough to marry. Hagar, did she aid him to
get the money, might expect reward in the shape of marriage. And she
was so beautiful, so clever! By the time he reached his poor lodging
Eustace had put all scruples out of his head, and had settled to marry
the gipsy as soon as the lost treasure came into his possession. In no
other way could he thank her for the interest she was taking in him.
This may seem a hasty decision; but young blood is soon heated; young
hearts are soon filled with love. Youth and beauty drawn together are
as flint and tinder to light the torch of Hymen.

Punctual to the appointed hour, Eustace, as smart as he could make
himself with the poor means at his command, appeared at the door of
the pawn-shop. Hagar was already waiting for him, with the Dante in
her hand. She wore a black dress, a black cloak, and a hat of the same
somber hue--such clothes being the mourning she had worn, and was
wearing, for Jacob. Averse as she was to using Goliath's money, she
thought he would hardly grudge her these garments of wo for his
father. Besides, as manageress of the shop, she deserved some salary.

"Why are you taking the Dante?" asked Eustace, when they set out for
Waterloo Station.

"It may be useful to read the riddle," said Hagar.

"Have you solved it?"

"I don't know; I am not sure," she said, meditatively. "I tried by
counting the lines on that page up and down. You understand---twenty-
seven, twelve, thirty-eight; but the lines I lighted on gave me no
clue."

"You didn't understand them?"

"Yes I did," replied Hagar, coolly. "I got a second-hand copy of a
translation from the old bookseller in Carby's Crescent, and by
counting the lines to correspond with those in the Florentine editlon
I arrived at the sense."

"And none of them point to the solution of the problem?"

"Not one. Then I tried by pages. I counted twenty-seven pages, but
could find no clue; I reckoned twelve pages; also thirty-eight; still
the same result. Then I took the twelfth, the twenty-seventh, and the
thirty-eighth page by numbers, but found nothing. The riddle is hard
to read."

"Impossible, I should say," said Eustace, in despair.

"No; I think I have found out the meaning."

"How? how? Tell me quick!"

"Not now. I found a word, but it seems nonsense, as I could not find
it in the Italian dictionary which I borrowed."

"What is the word?"

"I'll tell you when I have seen the house."

In vain Eustace tried to move her from this determination. Hagar was
stubborn when she took an idea into her strong brain; so she simply
declined to explain until she arrived at Woking--at the house of Uncle
Ben. Weak himself, Eustace could not understand how she could hold out
so long against his persuasions. Finally he decided in his own mind
that she did not care about him. In this he was wrong. Hagar liked
him--loved him; but she deemed it her duty to teach him patience--a
quality he lacked sadly. Hence her closed mouth.

When they arrived at Woking, Eustace led the way towards his late
uncle's house, which was some distance out of the town. He addressed
Hagar, after a long silence, when they were crossing a piece of waste
land and saw the cottage in the distance.

"If you find this money for me," he said, abruptly, "what service am I
to do for you in return?"

"I have thought of that," replied Hagar, promptly. "Find Goliath---
otherwise James Dix."

"Who is he?" asked Lorn, flushing. "Some one you are fond of?"

"Some one I hate with all my soul!" she flashed out; "but he is the
son of my late master, and heir to the pawn-shop. I look after it only
because he is absent; and on the day he returns I shall walk out of
it, and never set eyes on it, or him again."

"Why don't you advertise?"

"I have done so for months; so has Vark, the lawyer; but Jimmy Dix
never replies. He was with my tribe in the New Forest, and it was
because I hated him that I left the Romany. Since then he has gone
away, and I don't know where he is. Find him if you wish to thank me,
and let me get away from the pawn-shop."

"Very good," replied Eustace, quietly. "I shall find him. In the mean
time, here is the hermitage of my late uncle."

It was a bare little cottage, small and shabby, set at the end of a
square of ground fenced in from the barren moor. Within the quadrangle
there were fruit trees--cherry, apple, plum, and pear; also a large
fig-tree in the center of the unshaven lawn facing the house. All was
desolate and neglected; the fruit trees were unpruned, the grass was
growing in the paths, and the flowers were straggling here and there,
rich masses of ragged color. Desolate certainly, this deserted
hermitage, but not lonely, for as Hagar and her companion turned in at
the little gate a figure rose from a stooping position under an apple-
tree. It was that of a man with a spade in his hand, who had been
digging for some time, as was testified by the heap of freshly-turned
earth at his feet.

"Mr. Treadle!" cried Lorn, indignantly. "What are you doing here?"

"Lookin' fur the old un's cash!" retorted Mr. Treadle, with a scowl
directed equally at the young man and Hagar. "An' if I gets it I keeps
it. Lord! to think as 'ow I pampered that old sinner with figs and
such like--to say nothing of French brandy, which he drank by the
quart!"

"You have no business here!"

"No more 'ave you!" snapped the irate grocer. "If I ain't, you ain't,
fur till the 'ouse is let it's public property. I s'pose you've come
'ere with that Jezebel to look fur the money?"

Hagar, hearing herself called names, stepped promptly up to Mr.
Treadle, and boxed his red ears. "Now then," she said, when the grocer
fell back in dismay at this onslaught, "perhaps you'll be civil! Mr.
Lorn, sit down on this seat, and I'll explain the riddle."

"The Dante!" cried Mr. Treadle, recognizing the book which lay on
Hagar's lap--"an' she'll explain the riddle--swindling me out of my
rightful cash!"

"The cash belongs to Mr. Lorn, as his uncle's heir!" said Hagar,
wrathfully. "Be quiet, sir, or you'll get another box on the ears!"

"Never mind him," said Eustace, impatiently; "tell me the riddle."

"I don't know if I have guessed it correctly," answered Hagar, opening
the book; "but I've tried by line and page and number, all of which
revealed nothing. Now I try by letters, and you will see if the word
they make is a proper Italian one."

She read out the marked line and the date. "'Ficcar lo viso per la
luce eterna, 27th December, '38.' Now," said Hagar, slowly, "if you
run all the figures together they stand as 271238."

"Yes, yes!" said Eustace, impatiently; "I see. Go on, please."

Hagar continued: "Take the second letter of the word 'Ficcar.'"

"'I.'"

"Also the seventh letter from the beginning of the line."

Eustace counted. "'L.' I see," he went on, eagerly. "Also the first
letter, 'F,' the second again, 'i,' the third and the eighth, 'c' and
'o.'"

"Good!" said Hagar, writing these down. "Now, the whole make up the
word 'Ilfico.' Is that an Italian word?"

"I'm not sure," said Eustace, thoughtfully. "'Ilfico.' No."

"Shows what eddication 'e's got!" growled Mr. Treadle, who was leaning
on his spade.

Eustace raised his eyes to dart a withering glance at the grocer, and
in doing so his vision passed on to the tree looming up behind the
man. At once the meaning of the word flashed on his brain.

"'Il fico!'" he cried, rising. "Two words instead of one! You have
found it, Hagar! It means the fig-tree--the one yonder. I believe the
money is buried under it."

Before he could advance a step Treadle had leaped forward, and was
slashing away at the tangled grass round the fig-tree like a madman.

"If 'tis there, 'tis mine!" he shouted. "Don't you come nigh me, young
Lorn, or I'll brain you with my spade! I fed up that old uncle of
yours like a fighting cock, and now I'm going to have his cash to pay
me!"

Eustace leaped forward in the like manner as Treadle had done, and
would have wrenched the spade out of his grip, but that Hagar laid a
detaining hand on his arm.

"Let him dig," she said, coolly. "The money is yours; I can prove it.
He'll have the work and you the fortune."

"Hagar! Hagar! how can I thank you!"

The girl stepped back, and a blush rose in her cheeks. "Find Goliath,"
she said, "and let me get rid of the pawn-shop."

At this moment Treadle gave a shout of glee, and with both arms
wrenched a goodly-sized tin box out of the hole he had dug.

"Mine! mine!" he cried, plumping this down on the grass. "This will
pay for the dinners I gave him, the presents I made him. I've bin
castin' my bread on the waters, and here it's back again."

He fell to forcing the lid of the box with the edge of the spade, all
the time laughing and crying like one demented. Lorn and Hagar drew
near, in the expectation of seeing a shower of gold pieces rain on the
ground when the lid was opened. As Treadle gave a final wrench it flew
wide, and they saw--an empty box.

"Why--what," stammered Treadle, thunderstruck--"what does it mean?"

Eustace, equally taken aback, bent down and looked in. There was
absolutely nothing in the box but a piece of folded paper. Unable to
make a remark, he held it out to the amazed Hagar.

"What the d--l does it mean?" said Treadle again.

"This explains," said Hagar, running her eye over the writing. "It
seems that this wealthy Uncle Ben was a pauper."

"A pauper!" cried Eustace and Treadle together.

"Listen!" said Hagar, and read out from the page: "When I returned to
England I was thought wealthy, so that all my friends and relations
fawned on me for the crumbs which fell from the rich man's table. But
I had just enough money to rent the cottage for a term of years, and
to purchase an annuity barely sufficient for the necessities of life.
But, owing to the report of my wealth, the luxuries have been supplied
by those who hoped for legacies. This is my legacy to one and all--
these golden words, which I have proved true: 'It is better to be
thought rich than to be rich.'"

The paper fell from the hand of Eustace, and Treadle, with a howl of
rage, threw himself on the grass, loading the memory of the deceased
with opprobrious names. Seeing that all was over, that the expected
fortune had vanished into thin air, Hagar left the disappointed grocer
weeping with rage over the deceptive tin box, and led Eustace away. He
followed her as in a dream, and all the time during their sad journey
back to town he spoke hardly a word. What they did say--how Eustace
bewailed his fate and Hagar comforted him--is not to the point. But on
arriving at the door of the pawn-shop Hagar gave the copy of Dante to
the young man. "I give this back to you," she said, pressing his hand.
"Sell it, and with the proceeds build up your own fortune."

"But shall I not see you again?" he asked, piteously.

"Yes, Mr. Lorn; you shall see me when you bring back Goliath."

Then she entered the pawn-shop and shut the door. Left alone in the
deserted crescent, Eustace sighed and walked slowly away. Hugging to
his breast the Florentine Dante, he went away to make his fortune, to
find Goliath, and--although he did not know it at the time--to marry
Hagar.



CHAPTER III. THE SECOND CUSTOMER AND THE AMBER BEADS.



AFTER the episode of the Florentine Dante, Hagar lost her high
spirits. She had sent Eustace away to make his fortune, and to
discover, if possible, the lost heir of Jacob Dix. By this act of
self-denial, as it really was, she had deprived herself of all
pleasure; she had robbed herself of what might have been a bright
future; consequently she was less cheerful than of yore. Nevertheless,
she felt convinced that Lorn loved her, and that he would earn her
gratitude--possibly her hand--by returning with Goliath at his heels.
When that event took place she would recover at once her spirits and
her lover; but at present the business of the pawn-shop took up her
undivided attention, and forced her to put away sad thoughts and
melancholy considerations. Also, Providence provided distraction for
her dismal humors by sending her a negress to pawn a necklace of amber
beads. Although Hagar did not know it at the time, this was the
beginning of a second and rather more serious adventure.

It was drawing to night one August evening when the woman made her
appearance, and the atmosphere of the pawnshop was darker than usual.
Still, it was sufficiently light for Hagar to see that her customer
was a tall and bulky negress, arrayed in a gaudy yellow dress,
neutralized by trimmings of black jet beading. As the evening was hot
and close, she wore neither cloak nor jacket, but displayed her
somewhat shapeless figure to the full in this decidedly startling
costume. Her hat was a garden of roses--red, white and yellow; she
wore a large silver brooch like a shield, an extensive necklace of
silver coins, and many bangles of the same metal on her black wrists.
As a contrast to these splendors she wore no gloves, nor did she hide
her coal-black face with a veil. Altogether, this odd customer was the
blackest and most fantastically-dressed negress that Hagar had ever
seen, and in the dim light she looked a striking but rather alarming
figure.

On Hagar coming to the counter this black woman produced out of a
silver-clasped sealskin satchel a necklace, which she handed silently
to Hagar for inspection. As the light was too imperfect to admit of a
close examination, Hagar lighted the gas, but when it flamed up the
negress, as though unwilling to be seen too clearly in the searching
glare, stepped back hastily into the darkness. Hagar put this
retrograde movement down to the natural timidity of a person
unaccustomed to pawning, and took but little notice of it at the time.
Afterwards she had cause to remember it.

The necklace was a string of magnificent amber beads threaded on a
slender chain of gold. Each bead was as large as the egg of a sparrow,
and round the middle of every single one there was a narrow belt of
tiny diamonds. The clasp at the back was of fine gold, square in
shape, and curiously wrought to the representation of a hideous
Ethiopian face, with diamonds for eyes. This queer piece of jewelry
was unique of its kind, and, as Hagar rapidly calculated, of
considerable value. Nevertheless, she offered, according to custom, as
low a sum as she well could.

"I'll give five pounds on it," said she, returning to the counter.

Rather to her surprise, the negress accepted with a sharp nod, and
then took out of her bag a scrap of paper. On this was written
laboriously: "Rosa, Marylebone Road." The name and address were so
imperfect that Hagar hesitated before making out the pawn-ticket.

"Have you no other name but Rosa?" she asked, sharply.

The negress shook her head, and kept well in the shadow.

"And no more particular address than Marylebone Road?"

Again the black woman made a negative sign, whereat, annoyed by these
gestures, Hagar grew angered.

"Can't you speak?" she demanded, tartly. "Are you dumb?"

At once the negress nodded, and laid a finger on her lips. Hagar drew
back. This woman was black, she was dumb, she gave half a name, half
an address, and she wished to pawn a valuable and unique piece of
jewelry. The whole affair was queer, and, as Hagar considered, might
be rather dangerous. Perhaps this silent negress was disposing of
stolen goods, as the necklace seemed too fine for her to possess. For
the moment Hagar was inclined to refuse to do business; but a glance
at the amber beads decided her to make the bargain. She could get it
cheap; she was acting well within the legal limits of business; and if
the police did appear in the matter, no blame could be attached to her
for the transaction. Biased by these considerations, Hagar made out
the ticket in the name Rosa, and took a clean new five-pound note out
of the cash-box. As she was about to give ticket and money across the
counter she paused. "I'll take the number of this note," she thought,
going to the desk; "if this negress can't be traced by name or
address, the bank-note number will find her if it is necessary."

Deeming this precaution judicious, Hagar hastily scribbled down the
number of the five-pound note, and returning to the counter, gave it
and the ticket to her queer customer. The negress stretched out her
right hand for them; and then Hagar made a discovery which she noted
mentally as a mark of identification if necessary. However, she said
nothing, but tried to get a good look at the woman's face. The
customer, however, kept well in the shadow, and swept note and ticket
into her bag hurriedly. Then she bowed and left the shop.

Six days later Hagar received a printed notice from New Scotland Yard,
notifying to all pawn-brokers that the police were in search of a
necklace of amber beads set with diamonds, and clasped with a negro's
face wrought in gold. Notice of its whereabouts was to be sent to the
Detective Department without delay. Remembering her suspicions, and
recalling the persistent way in which the negress had averted her
face, Hagar was not much surprised by this communication. Curious to
know the truth, and to learn what crime might be attached to the
necklace, she wrote at once about the matter. Within four hours a
stranger presented himself to see the amber beads, and to question her
concerning the woman who had pawned the same. He was a fat little man,
with a healthy red face and shrewd twinkling eyes. Introducing himself
as Luke Horval, of the detective service, he asked Hagar to relate the
circumstances of the pawning. This the girl did frankly enough, but
without communicating her own suspicions. At the conclusion of her
narrative she displayed the amber beads, which were carefully examined
by Mr. Horval. Then he slapped his knee, and whistled in a thoughtful
sort of way.

"I guessed as much," said he, staring hard at Hagar. "The negress did
it."

"Did what?" asked the girl, curiously.

"Why," said Horval, "murdered the old woman."

Murder! The word had a gruesome and cruel sound, which caused Hagar's
cheek to pale when it rang in her ears. She had connected the amber
beads with robbery, but scarcely with the taking of life. The idea
that she had been in the company of a murderess gave Hagar a qualm;
but, suppressing this as a weakness, she asked Horval to tell her the
details of the crime and how it bore on the pawning of the amber
beads.

"It's just this way, miss," explained the detective, easily. "This
Rosa is the nigger girl of Mrs. Arryford---"

"Is Rosa her real name?"

"Oh, yes; I s'pose she thought she might lose the beads if she gave a
wrong one; but the address ain't right. It's the other end of London
as Mrs. Arryford lives--or rather lived," added Horval, correcting
himself, "seeing she now occupies a Kensal Green grave--Campden Hill,
miss; a sweet little house in Bedford Gardens, where she lived with
Rosa and Miss Lyle."

"And who is Miss Lyle?"

"The companion of Mrs. Arryford. A dry stick of a spinster, miss; not
to be compared with a fine girl like you."

Hagar did not deign to notice the compliment, but sharply requested
Mr. Horval to continue his story, which he did, in no wise abashed by
her cold demeanor.

"It's just this way, miss," said he again; "the old lady, the old maid
and the nigger wench lived together in Bedford Gardens, a kind of
happy family, as one might say. Mrs. Arryford was the widder of a West
Indian gent, and as rich as Solomon. She brought those amber beads
from Jamaica, and Rosa was always wanting them."

"Why? The necklace was very unsuitable to one of her condition."

"'Twasn't exactly the cost of it as she thought about," said Horval,
nursing his chin, "but it seems that the necklace is a fetish, or
charm, or lucky-penny, as you might say, to bring good fortune to the
wearer. Mrs. Arryford was past wanting good luck, so hadn't no need
for the beads. Rosa asked her for them, just for the good luck of
them, as you might say. The old girl wouldn't part, as she was as
superstitious as Rosa herself over that necklace; so in the end Rosa
murdered her to get it."

"How do you know she did?" asked Hagar, doubtfully.

"How do I know?" echoed the detective in surprise. "'Cause I ain't a
fool, miss. Last week Mrs. Arryford was found in her bed with a
carving knife in her heart, as dead as a door-nail, and the beads were
missing. Miss Lyle, she didn't know anything about it, and Rosa swore
she hadn't left her room, so, you see, we couldn't quite hit on who
finished off Mrs. Arryford. But now as I know Rosa pawned these beads,
I'm sure she did the job."

"What made you think that the beads might have been pawned?"

"Oh, that was Miss Lyle's idea; a sharp old girl she is, miss. She was
very fond of Mrs. Arryford, as she well might be, seeing as the old
lady was rich and kept her like a princess. Often she heard Rosa ask
for those beads, so when Mrs. Arryford was killed and the beads
missing she told me as she was sure Rosa had done the trick."

"But the pawning?"

"Well, miss," said Horval, scratching his chin, "it was just this way.
Miss Lyle said as how Rosa, to get rid of the necklace until the
affair of the murder was blown over, might pawn it. I thought so too,
so I sent a printed slip to all the pop-shops in London. You wrote
that the beads were here, so it seems as Miss Lyle was right."

"Evidently. By the way, who gets the money of Mrs. Arryford?"

"A Mr. Frederick Jevons; he's a nephew of Miss Lyle's."

"A nephew of Miss Lyle's!" echoed Hagar, in surprise. "And why did
Mrs. Arryford leave her money to him instead of to her relatives?"

"Well, it's just this way, miss," said Horval, rising. "She hadn't got
no relatives; and as Mr. Jevons was a good-looking young chap, always
at the house to see his aunt, she took a fancy to him and left the
money his way."

"You are sure that Miss Lyle is no relation to Mrs. Arryford?"

"Quite sure. She was only the old girl's companion."

"Was Mrs. Arryford weak in the head?"

"Not as I ever heard of," said Mr. Horval, with a stare, "but you can
find out, if you like, from Miss Lyle."

"Miss Lyle! How am I to see her?"

"Why," said the detective, clapping on his hat, "when you come to see
if Rosa is the same nigger as pawned the amber beads. Just leave
someone to look after the shop, miss, and come with me right away."

With true feminine curiosity, Hagar agreed at once to accompany the
detective to Campden Hill. The shop was delivered into the charge of
Bolker, a misshapen imp of sixteen, who for some months had been the
plague of Hagar's life. He had a long body and long arms, short legs
and a short temper, and also a most malignant eye, which indicated
only too truly his spiteful nature. Having given a few instructions to
this charming lad, Hagar departed with Horval in the omnibus, and
arrived at Bedford Gardens early in the afternoon.

The house was a quaint, pretty cottage, which stood in a delightful
garden--once the solace of poor dead Mrs. Arryford's soul--and was
divided from the road by a tall fence of iron railings closed in with
wooden planks painted a dark green. The room into which the detective
and gipsy were shown was a prim and rather cosy apartment, which bore
the impress of Miss Lyle's old-maidism in the disposition of the
furniture. When they were seated here, and were waiting for Miss Lyle,
who had been advised of their arrival, Hagar suddenly asked Horval a
leading question.

"Is Rosa dumb?" she demanded.

"Bless you, no!" answered Horval. "It's true as she don't talk much,
but she can use her tongue in nigger fashion. Why do you ask?"

"She said she was dumb when she pawned the beads."

"Oh, that was 'cause she was too 'cute to let her voice betray her,"
replied Horval, smiling. He had humor enough to note Hagar's uncon--
scious bull; but as she was likely to be useful to him in the conduct
of the case, he did not wish to anger her by remarking on it.

When Miss Lyle made her appearance, Hagar, after the manner of women,
took immediate note of her looks and manner. The old maid was tall and
lean and yellow, with cold gray eyes, and a thin-lipped, hard-tempered
mouth, turned down at the curves. Her iron-gray hair was drawn tightly
off her narrow forehead and screwed into a hard-looking knob behind.
She wore a black stuff gown, somber and lusterless; collar and cuffs
of white linen, and cloth slippers, in which she glided noiselessly.
Altogether an unpromising, hard woman, acidulated and narrow-minded,
who looked disapprovingly on the rich beauty of Hagar, and remarked
her graces with a jaundiced eye and a vinegary look. The cough with
which she ended her inspection showed that she con--demned the girl at
first sight.

"Is this young person necessary to your conduct of the case?" said
Miss Lyle, addressing herself to Horval, and ignoring Hagar
altogether.

"Why, yes, miss," replied Horval, on whom the antagonistic attitude of
the two women was not lost. "She keeps the pawn-shop at which Rosa
pawned the beads!"

Miss Lyle gave a start of virtuous horror, and her thin lips wreathed
in a viperous smile. "The wretch did kill my poor friend, then," she
said in a soft and fluty voice. "I knew it!"

"She pawned the amber beads, Miss Lyle, but---"

"Now, don't say the wretch didn't kill my martyred friend," snapped
Miss Lyle, going to the bell-rope; "but we'll have her in, and perhaps
this young person will recognize her as the viper who pawned the
beads."

"It is to be hoped so," said Hagar, very dryly, not approving of being
spoken at in the third person; "but the regress kept her face turned
away, and I might not---"

"It is your duty to recognize her," exclaimed Miss Lyle, addressing
herself to the girl for once. "I am convinced that Rosa is a dangerous
criminal. Here she is--the black Jezebel!"

As the last word fell from her mouth the door opened, and Rosa entered
the room, whereat Hagar uttered an exclamation of surprise. This
regress was rather short, and more than a trifle stout. It is true
that she wore a yellow dress trimmed with black jet beading; that
silver ornaments were on her neck and wrists; also that she was
without the wonderful hat. Still, Hagar was surprised, and explained
her ejaculation forthwith.

"That is not the woman who pawned the beads!" she declared, rising.

"Not the woman?" echoed Miss Lyle, virulently. "She must be! This is
Rosa!"

"Yis, yis! I Rosa," said the negress, beginning to weep, "but I no
kill my poo' dear missy. Dat one big lie."

"Are you sure, miss, that this is not the woman?" asked Horval, rather
dismayed.

Hagar stepped forward, and looked sharply at the sobbing negress up
and down. Then she glanced at the woman's hands and shook her head.

"I am prepared to swear in a court of law that this is not the woman,"
she said, quietly.

"Rubbish, rubbish!" cried Miss Lyle, flushing. "Rosa coveted the
necklace, as it was connected with some debased African superstition,
and---"

"It one ole fetish!" interrupted Rosa, her eyes sparkling fire at the
old maid, "and ole missy she did wish to gib it me, but you no let
her."

"Certainly not!" said Miss Lyle, with dignity. "The necklace was not
fit for you to wear. And because I persuaded Mrs. Arryford not to give
it to you, you murdered her, you wretch! Down on your knees, woman,
and confess!"

"I no 'fess!" exclaimed the terrified negress. "I no kill my missy! I
no gib dose amber beads for money. If dose beads mine, I keep dem; dey
a mighty big fetish, for sure!"

"One moment," said Horval, as Miss Lyle was about to speak again, "let
us conduct this inquiry calmly, and give the accused every chance
Miss," he said, turning to Hagar, "on what day, at what time, was it
that the beads were pawned?"

Hagar calculated rapidly, and answered promptly: "On the evening of
the 23d of August, between six and seven o'clock."

"Ah!" exclaimed Miss Lyle, joyfully--"and on that very evening Rosa
was out, and did not return till nine!"

"Me went to see Massa Jevons for you," said Rosa vehemently; "you send
me."

"I send you! Just listen to the creature's lies! Besides, Mr. Jevons's
rooms are in Duke Street, St James's, whereas it was at Lambeth you
were."

"I no go to dat gem'man's house. You send me to de train Waterloo!"

"Waterloo!" said Horval, looking sharply at Rosa. "You were there?"

"Yis, masse; me dere at seven and eight."

"In the neighbourhood of Lambeth," murmured Horval. "She might have
gone to the pawn-shop after all."

"Of course she did!" cried Miss Lyle, vindictively--"and pawned the
amber beads of my poor dead friend!"

"She did nothing of the sort!" interposed Hagar, with spirit.
"Whosoever pawned the beads, it was not this woman. Besides, how do
you know that Rosa killed Mrs. Arryford?"

"She wanted the beads, young woman, and she killed my friend to obtain
them."

"No, no! dat one big lie!"

"I am sure it is!" said Hagar, her face aflame. "I believe in your
innocence, Rosa. Mr. Horval," she added, turning to the detective,
"you can't arrest this woman, as you have no grounds to do so."

"Well, if she didn't pawn those beads---"

"She did not, I tell you."

"She did!" cried Miss Lyle angrily. "I believe you are an accomplice
of the creature's!"

What reply Hagar would have made to this accusation it is impossible
to say, for at this moment a young man walked into the room. He was
good-looking in appearance, and smart in dress, but there was a
haggard look about his face which betokened dissipation.

"This," said Miss Lyle, introducing him, "is my nephew, the heir to
the property of my late dear friend. He is resolved, as such heir, to
find out and punish the assassin of his benefactress. For my part, I
believe Rosa to be guilty."

"And I," cried Hagar, with energy, "believe her to be innocent!"

"Let us hope she is," said Jevons, in a weary voice, as he removed his
gloves. "I am tired of the whole affair."

"You are bound to punish the guilty!" said Miss Lyle, in hard tones.

"But not the innocent," retorted Hagar, rising.

"Young woman, you are insolent!"

Hagar looked Miss Lyle up and down in the coolest manner; then her
eyes wandered to the well-dressed figure of Jevons, the heir. What she
saw in him to startle her it is difficult to say; but after a moment's
inspection she turned pale with suppressed emotion. Stepping forward,
she was about to speak, when, checking herself suddenly, she beckoned
to Horval, and advanced towards the door.

"My errand here is fulfilled," she said, quietly. "Mr. Horval, perhaps
you will come with me."

"Yes, and you can go also, Rosa," cried Miss Lyle, angered by the
insulting gaze of the girl. "I am mistress here in my nephew's house,
and I refuse to let a murderess remain under its roof!"

"Be content," said Hagar, pausing at the door. "Rosa shall come with
me; and when you see us again with Mr. Horval, you will then learn who
killed Mrs. Arryford, and why."

"Insolent hussy!" muttered Miss Lyle, and closed the door on Hagar,
Horval and the black woman.

The trio walked away, and shortly afterwards picked up an omnibus, in
which they returned to the Lambeth pawnshop. Hagar talked earnestly to
Horval the whole way; and from the close attention which the detective
paid to her it would seem that the conversation was of the deepest
interest. Rosa, a dejected heap of misery, sat with downcast eyes, and
at intervals wiped away the tears which ran down her black cheeks. The
poor negress, under suspicion as a thief and a murderess, turned out
of house and home, desolate and forsaken, was crushed to the earth
under the burden of her woes. On her the fetish necklace of amber
beads had brought a curse.

On arriving at the shop Hagar conducted Rosa into the back parlor; and
after a further conference she dismissed the detective.

"You can stay with me for a week," she said to Rosa.

"And den what you do?"

"Oh," said Hagar, with an agreeable smile, "I shall take you with me
to denounce the assassin of your late mistress."

All that week Rosa stayed in the domestic portion of the pawn-shop,
and made herself useful in cooking and cleaning. Hagar questioned her
closely concerning the events which had taken place on the night of
the murder in the house at Bedford Gardens, and elicited certain
information which gave her great satisfaction. This she communicated
to Horval when he one day paid her a hurried visit. When in possession
of the facts, Horval looked at her with admiration, and on taking his
leave he paid her a compliment.

"You ought to be a man, with that head of yours," he said; "you're too
good to be a woman!"

"And not bad enough to be a man," retorted Hagar, laughing. "Be off
with you, Mr. Horval, and let me know when you want me up West."

In four more days Horval again made his appearance, this time in a
state of the greatest excitement. He was closeted with Hagar for over
an hour, and at its conclusion he departed in a great hurry. Shortly
after noon Hagar resigned the shop into Bolker's charge, put on hat
and cloak, and ordered Rosa to come with her. What the reason of this
unexpected departure might be she did not inform the negress
immediately; but before they reached their destination Rosa knew all,
and was much rejoiced thereat.

Hagar took Rosa as far as Duke Street, St James's, and here, at the
door of a certain house, they found the detective impatiently waiting
for them.

"Well, Mr. Horval," said Hagar, coming to a stop, "is he indoors?"

"Safe and sound!" replied Horval, tapping his breastcoat pocket---"and
I have got you know what here. Shall we come up?"

"Not immediately. I wish to see him by myself first. You remain
outside his door, and enter with Rosa when I call you."

Mr. Horval nodded, with a full comprehension of what was required of
him, and the trio ascended the dark staircase. They paused at a door
on the second landing. Then Hagar, motioning to her companions that
they should withdraw themselves into the gloom, rapped lightly on the
portal. Shortly afterwards it was opened by Mr. Frederick Jevons, who
looked inquiringly at Hagar. She turned her face towards the light
which fell through the murky staircase window, whereat, recognizing
her, he stepped back in dismay.

"The pawn-shop girl!" said he in astonishment. "What do you want?"

"I wish to see you," replied Hagar, composedly, "but it is just as
well that our conversation should be in private."

"Why, you can have nothing to say to me but what the whole world might
hear!"

"After I have mentioned the object of my visit you may think
differently," said Hagar, with some dryness. "However, we'll talk here
if you wish."

"No, no; come in," said Jevons, standing on one side. "Since you
insist upon privacy, you shall have it. This way."

He showed her into a large and rather badly furnished room. Evidently
Mr. Fred Jevons had not been rich until he inherited the fortune of
Mrs. Arryford.

"I suppose you will be moving to the Bedford Gardens house soon?" said
Hagar, sitting composedly in a large armchair.

"Is that what you came to speak to me about?" retorted Jevons, rudely.

"Not exactly. Perhaps, as you are impatient, we had better get to
business."

"Business! What business can I have to do with you?"

"Why," said Hagar, quietly, and looking directly at him, "the business
of those amber beads which you--pawned."

"I," stammered Jevons, drawing back with a pale face.

"Also," added Hagar, solemnly, "the business which concerns the
commission of a crime."

"A--a--a crime!" gasped the wretched creature.

"Yes--the most terrible of all crimes--murder!"

"What--what--what do you--you mean?"

Hagar rose from her chair, and, drawn to her full height, stretched
out an accusing arm towards the young man. "What I mean you know well
enough!" she said, sternly. "I mean that you murdered Mrs. Arryford!"

"It's a lie!" cried Jevons, sinking into a chair, for his legs refused
to support him longer.

"It is not a lie--it is the truth! I have evidence!"

"Evidence!" He started up with dry and trembling lips.

"Yes. Through her influence over Mrs. Arryford, your aunt induced her
to make you her heir. You are fond of money; you are in debt, and you
could not wait until the old lady died in the course of nature. On the
night of the murder you were in the house."

"No, no! I swear---"

"You need not; you were seen leaving the house. To throw suspicion on
Rosa you disguised yourself as a negress, and came to pawn the amber
bead necklace at my shop. I recognized that the supposed black woman
was minus the little finger of the right hand. You, Mr. Jevons, are
mutilated in the same way. Again, I paid you with a five-pound note.
Of that note I took the number. It has been traced by the number, and
you are the man who paid it away. I saw---"

Jevons jumped up, still white and shaking. "It's a lie! a lie!" he
said, hoarsely. "I did not kill Mrs. Arryford; I did not pawn the
beads. I did---"

"You did both those things!" said Hagar, brushing past him. "I have
two witnesses who can prove what I say is true. Rosa! Mr. Horval!"

She flung the outside door wide open, while Jevons again sank into the
arm-chair, with an expression of horror on his white face. "Rosa!
Horval!" he muttered. "I am lost!"

Rosa and the detective entered quickly in response to Hagar's call,
and with her looked down on the shrinking figure of the accused man.

"These are my witnesses," said Hagar, slowly. "Rosa!"

"I saw dat man in de house when my missy died," said the negress. "I
hear noise in de night; I come down, and I see Massa Jevons run away
from de room of my missy, and Missus Lyle let him out by de side door.
He kill my poo' missy--yes, I tink dat."

"You hear," said Hagar to the terrified man. "Now, Mr. Horval."

"I traced the five-pound note you gave him by its number," said the
detective. "Yes, he paid it away at his club; I can bring a waiter to
prove it."

"You hear," said Hagar again; "and I know by the evidence of your lost
finger that you are the man, disguised as a negress, who pawned the
necklace which was stolen from the person of Mrs. Arryford, after you
murdered her. The dead woman, as Rosa tells us, wore that necklace
night and day. Only with her death could it have been removed. You
murdered her; you stole the necklace of amber beads."

Jevons leaped up: "No, no, no!" he cried, loudly, striking his hands
together in despair. "I am innocent!"

"That," said Horval, slipping the handcuffs on his wrists, "you shall
prove before a judge and jury."

When Jevons, still protesting his innocence, was removed to prison,
Hagar and the negress returned to Carby's Crescent. It can easily be
guessed how she had traced the crime home to Jevons. She had noticed
that the negress who pawned the beads had no little finger. On being
brought face to face with Rosa, she had seen that the woman had not
lost the finger; and when Jevons had removed his gloves she had seen
in his right hand the evidence that he was one with the mysterious
black woman of the pawn-shop. Still, she was not certain; and it was
only when Rosa had deposed to the presence of the man at midnight in
the Bedford Gardens house, and when Horval had traced the five-pound
note of which she had taken the number, that she was certain that
Jevons was the murderer. Hence the accusation; hence the arrest. But
now the fact of his guilt was clearly established. To obtain the
wealth of Mrs. Arryford the wretched man had committed a crime; to
hide that crime and throw the blame on Rosa he had pawned the amber
beads; and now the amber beads were about to hang him. In the moment
of his triumph, when preparing to enjoy the fruits of his crime,
Nemesis had struck him down.

The news of the arrest, the story of the amber beads, was in all the
papers next day; and next day, also, Miss Lyle came to see Hagar. Pale
and stern, she swept into the shop, and looked at Hagar with a bitter
smile.

"Girl!" she said, harshly, "you have been our evil genius!"

"I have been the means of denouncing your accomplice, you mean,"
returned Hagar, composedly.

"My accomplice; no, my son!"

"Your son!" Hagar recoiled, with a startled expression. "Your son,
Miss Lyle?"

"Not Miss, but Mrs. Lyle," returned the gaunt, pale woman; "and
Frederick Jevons is my son by my first husband. You think he is
guilty; you are wrong, for he is innocent. You believe that you will
hang him; but I tell you, girl, he will go free. Read this paper," she
said, thrusting an envelope into the hand of Hagar, "and you will see
how you have been mistaken. I shall never see you again in this life;
but I leave my curse on you!"

Before Hagar could collect her wits, Miss--or rather Mrs.--Lyle, as
she called herself, went hurriedly out of the shop. Her manner was so
wild, her words so ominous of evil, that Hagar had it on her mind to
follow her, and, if possible, prevent the consequences of her despair.
She hurried to the door, but Mrs. Lyle had disappeared, and as there
was no one to mind the shop, Hagar could not go after her. Luckily, at
this moment Horval turned the corner, and at once the girl beckoned to
him.

"Miss Lyle--did you see her?"

"Yes," said Horval, with a nod "she's on her way across Westminster
Bridge."

"Oh, follow her--follow her quickly!" cried Hagar, wildly, "she is not
herself; she is bent on some rash deed!"

Horval paused a moment in bewilderment; then, grasping the situation,
he turned, without a word, and raced down the street in the trail of
Miss Lyle. Hagar watched his hurrying figure until it turned the
corner; then she retreated to the back parlor, and hurriedly opened
the envelope. On the sheet of paper she found within the following
confession was written:

"I am not a spinster, but a widow," began the document abruptly---"a
twice-married woman. By my first husband I had Frederick Jevons, who
passes as my nephew, and whom I love better than my own soul. When my
second husband, Mr. Lyle, died, I cast about for some means of
employment, as I was poor. Mrs. Arryford advertised for an unmarried
woman as a companion; she absolutely refused to have any companion but
a spinster. To get the situation, which was a good one, as Mrs.
Arryford was rich, I called myself Miss Lyle, and obtained the place.
Mrs. Arryford had no relatives and much money, so I schemed to obtain
her wealth for my son, whom I introduced as my nephew. Rosa, the black
maid, had a great deal of influence over her weak-minded mistress, and
in some way--I don't know how--she fathomed my purpose. It was a
battle between us, as Rosa was determined that I should not get the
money of Mrs. Arryford for my son. Finally I triumphed, and Frederick
was left sole heir of all the old lady's wealth. Then Rosa learnt, by
eavesdropping, the true relationship between myself and Frederick. She
told her mistress, and with Mrs. Arryford I had a stormy scene, in
which she declared her intention of revoking her will and turning me
and my son out on the world as paupers. I begged, I implored, I
threatened; but Mrs. Arryford, backed up by that wicked Rosa, was
firm. I sent for my son to try and soften the old lady, but he was not
in town, and did not come to see me till late at night. When he
arrived I told him that I had killed Mrs. Arryford. I did so to
prevent her altering her will, and out of love for my dear son, lest
he should lose the money. Frederick was horrified, and rushed from the
house. I believe Rosa saw me let him out by the side door. I was
determined to throw the blame on Rosa, as I hated her so. Knowing that
she coveted the neck lace of amber beads, I stole it from the neck of
the dead woman and gave it to my son next day. I suggested that he
should dress up as Rosa, and pawn the necklace, so that she might be
suspected. To save me, he did so. I obtained a dress that Rosa was
fond of wearing---yellow silk trimmed with black beads; also the
jewelry of the creature. Frederick blackened his face, and pawned the
beads in a pawn-shop at Lambeth. I sent Rosa on a pretended errand to
Waterloo Station, at the time Frederick was pawning the beads, so as
to get evidence against her that she was in the neighborhood. Then I
suggested to Horval, the detective, that the beads might have been
pawned. He found the shop, and I thought my plot had succeeded; that
Rosa would be condemned and hanged. Unfortunately, the woman who kept
the pawn-shop was clever, and traced Frederick by means of his
mutilated right hand. I hate her! Frederick is now in prison on a
charge of murder, which he did not commit. I am guilty. I killed Mrs.
Arryford. Frederick knows nothing. He helped me to save myself by
trying to throw the blame on Rosa. All useless. I am guilty, and I am
determined that he shall not suffer for my sin. Officers of the law, I
command you to release my son and arrest me. I am the murderess of
Mrs. Arryford. I swear it."

JULIA LYLE.

"Witnesses:

"Amelia Tyke (housemaid). "Mark Drew (butler)."

Hagar let the document fall from her hands with a sensation of pity
for the wretched woman.

"How she must love her son," thought the girl, "to have murdered a
kind and good woman for his sake! It is terrible! Well, I suppose he
will now be released and will enter into possession of the wealth his
mother schemed to obtain for him. But he must do justice to Rosa for
all the trouble he has caused her. He must give her an annuity, and
also the necklace of amber beads, which has been the cause of tracing
the crime home to its door. As for Mrs. Lyle---"

At this moment, white and breathless, Horval rushed into the parlor.
Hagar sprang to her feet, and looked anxiously at him, expectant of
bad news. She was right.

"My girl," cried Horval, hoarsely, "Miss Lyle is dead!"

"Dead? Ah!" said Hagar to herself. "I thought as much."

"She threw herself over Westminster Bridge, and has just been picked
out of the water--dead!"

"Dead!" said Hagar again. "Dead!"

"As a door-nail!" replied the detective in a perplexed tone. "But
why--why did she commit suicide?"

Hagar sighed, and in silence handed to the detective the confession of
the dead woman.



CHAPTER IV. THE THIRD CUSTOMER AND THE JADE IDOL.



HAGAR was a shrewd, clear-headed girl, who, having been educated in
the hard school of Jacob Dix, knew the value of money and the art of
driving good bargains. Otherwise she was uncultured and uneducated,
although, to speak truly, she had a considerable knowledge of pictures
and china, of gems and silverware. But a schoolboy knew more than she
did as regards bookish information. She was ignorant of geography, as
that science had been taught neither in the gipsy camp nor in the
Lambeth pawn-shop. China was to her--ware, and not a vast empire of
the East. But when the third customer came to pawn an idol of sea-
green jade Hagar learnt something concerning the Celestial Kingdom.

The man was a sailor, with a coarse face reddened by wind and salt
water, and two twinkling blue eyes, which peered at her shrewdly from
under shaggy eyebrows. He had strong white teeth, which glistened
through a heavy mustache, a head of fair curly hair, and a heavily-
built figure well supported on stalwart legs. His rough trousers of
blue serge, his black pilot jacket with brass buttons, and his gaudy
loose cravat were all redolent of the ocean wave. Rings of gold in his
large red ears added to his queer aspect; and he rolled into the shop
like one to whom the firm earth is strange after the swinging and
pitching of a ship.

This mariner cast uneasy glances over his shoulder as he entered the
shop, and finally swung into one of the sentry boxes like a vessel
coming to anchor. Here he took off his gold-banded cap and wiped his
rough brow with a red handkerchief of Chinese silk. Hagar, with her
hands resting lightly on the counter, waited for him to speak, and was
rather surprised when he still kept silent, and still continued to
glance over his shoulder in the direction of the door. Finally she
lost patience.

"Well, what can I do for you?" she asked sharply.

The mariner leant across the counter, and spoke in a hoarse voice like
the roaring of waves. "Nathaniel Prime is my name, miss," he said;
almost in a whisper--"Nat fur short; and I'm third mate on board a tea
ship as trades from Hong Kong to London's port and back agin."

"Well, Mr. Prime," said Hagar, as he paused, "what do you want?"

Nat pulled a small parcel wrapped in a blue check handkerchief out of
his pocket, and plumped it on the counter. "I've a small article here,
miss, as I wants to lodge with you fur safe keeping."

"Oh," said Hagar, adapting this speech to her own ideas, "you want to
pawn something. What is it?"

"It's Kwan-tai--that's what it is, miss."

Hagar drew back. "What gibberish are you talking?" she asked,
frowning.

"Chinese," replied the mariner promptly. "Kwan-tai is the god of war
in China, miss. This"--he unrolled the handkerchief and displayed a
particularly ugly idol--"is his image. I got it from his temple in the
Street of the Water Dragon in Canton. Jest look at it, miss--but wait
a bit." He rolled back to the door, stepped out on to the pavement,
and looked to right and left. Apparently he was satisfied with this
survey, for with a complacent whistle he returned to continue the
conversation. "I thought that blamed Chinaman might be arter me," said
he, slipping a plug of tobacco into his capacious mouth; "he'd knife
me like pie to get that d--d thing there."

"Knife you, man! What do you mean?"

"Why," said Mr. Prime, "this China d--l--Yu-ying is his name---wants
to git that there god; so, as I don't want a bowie exploring my
inside, I think it's good biz to leave it with you fur safe keeping."

Hagar put down the idol and stepped back. "So you want to transfer the
danger to me?" she said, dryly. "No, thank you; take that ugly thing
away!"

"Now, don't you make any mistake, miss," said Nat, pushing back the
idol in his turn. "Yu-ying don't know as I'm on this lay. All I wants
is to leave Kwan-tai in this here strop for a week. There ain't no
danger in that."

Hagar picked up the god again and considered. It was a revoltingly
ugly figure carved out of green jade, and had diamonds for eyes,
crossed legs, and two large, fan-like hands resting on a protuberant
stomach. Not a desirable article to possess, save as a curiosity; but
no doubt it had some sacred significance in the almond eyes of Yu-
ying; hence his desire to obtain it, even at the cost of a man's life.
For a moment or two Hagar hesitated as to taking Kwan-tai in pawn; but
as there seemed to be no immediate danger and might not be any, she
resolved to trade. Hagar was so far Hebraic that she never lost the
chance of making a bargain; but then, according to some folk, the
Romany are one of the ten lost tribes.

"I'll give you thirty shillings on it," she said, abruptly.

"Thirty bob it is," assented Nat, promptly, "as all I want is to leave
this 'ere idol in your diggings fur safety. If 'twas pawning, I guess
thirty quid 'ud be nearer my price. I reckon that there piece of jade
is worth two hundred pound!"

"I don't know the market value of jade," retorted Hagar, impatiently.
"All my business with you is to lend money on the thing. It's thirty
shillings or nothing."

"Don't I tell you it's a deal?" said Mr. Prime, shifting the quid of
tobacco to the other side of his mouth. "Give us a scratch of the pen
to say as you've got Kwan-tai in charge."

"Name and address?" demanded Hagar, making out the ticket.

"Nathaniel Prime, mariner, 20, Old Cloe Street, Docks," said the
sailor. "It's a pub, y' know, miss--the Nelson. I'll stand you a drink
if you looks me up, and proud to do it fur a slap-up gal like
yourself!"

"Here's the ticket and the money, Mr. Prime. If that's all your
business, get out sharp!"

"Sharp's the word," said the obedient mariner, slipping the thirty
shillings into his pocket; "and if Yu-ying comes smelling round here,
jest you up anchor and steer fur me at the Nelson. I'm the bad man
from the back of beyond when that heathen's about!"

Mr. Prime nodded in a friendly way to Hagar, and rolled out of the
shop door. She heard him singing a chanty as he left Carby's Crescent,
and it was only when the roar of his lusty voice died away that she
bethought herself of the diamond-eyed idol. Kwan-tai was a very ugly
deity, but curious and attractive in his way; so, for the furtherance
of business, and to see if there was any truth in Nat's story about
Yu-ying, the girl placed the Chinese god in the shop window. He smiled
as complacently there, out of his almond eyes, amongst the dusty
wrecks as formerly he had beamed on his worshipers in the Street of
the Water Dragon in far Canton.

Now, if there be one vice above another which ruins the female sex, it
is that of curiosity. Here was Hagar told a surprising fact concerning
the idol Kwan-tai, and at once she resolved to test if Nat's story was
true. By putting the jade god In the window, she afforded Yu-ying a
chance of seeing it; and then, if he wanted to possess the talisman--
as it apparently was--she expected that he would enter the shop and
offer to purchase it. Not for a moment did she think that he would
kill her, or even attempt her life. That statement she believed to be
an embellishment of Prime's to adorn his queer story.

"And I don't believe a word of it!" said the doubting Hagar. "However,
the jade idol is exposed in the shop window, and we will see what will
come of it."

Greatly to her surprise, trouble came of her folly, and that speedily.
At noon next day she was eating her simple dinner in the back parlor
with the door leading into the shop open, so that she might hear the
approach of possible customers. Most of the inhabitants of the
Crescent were within doors at the midday meal and the little square
was quite deserted. Suddenly Hagar heard the crash of glass, and sat
paralyzed for the moment in sheer astonishment at the unusual sound.
When she recovered her wits and the use of her limbs, she ran rapidly
into the shop, and beheld the warning of Nat Prime verified to the
letter. The middle pane of the shop window was broken, and the jade
idol was gone. With an ejaculation of surprise and Hagar sprang to the
door, and saw a blue-bloused figure racing down the narrow street
which led to the thoroughfare.

"The Chinaman! the Chinaman!" cried Hagar, giving chase. "Thief!
stop--stop--thief! Yu-ying! Yu-ying!"

Followed by a crowd, which had collected like magic in answer to her
cries, Hagar sped as lightly as a deer down the alley. But she was no
match for the nimble Chinaman. When she reached the crowded street,
Yu-ying--as it doubtless was--could not be seen. She appealed to the
bystanders, to a stolid policeman, to the cab-drivers; but all to no
purpose. Certainly they had seen the Chinese thief flying out of the
Carby Crescent cul-de-sac, but no one had taken particular notice of
him. Hagar ran this way, that way; looked, questioned, considered; all
in vain. Yu-ying had vanished as though the earth had swallowed him
up, and with him the jade idol of Nat Prime. Blaming herself for her
credulity and headstrong folly in putting Kwan-tai into the window,
Hagar returned crestfallen to the pawn-shop. Having placed a temporary
barricade before the broken pane, and having sent for the glazier to
mend it, Hagar sat down to consider what was to be done relative to
the theft.

Assuredly Prime would return at the end of the week to redeem the jade
god, and Hagar did not know what excuse to make for its loss. Without
doubt, Yu-ying had followed Nat to the shop on the previous day, and
had ascertained the fact of the pawning. He had watched his oppor--
tunity to steal the god, as he evidently preferred this illegitimate
way, to buying it in a proper manner. Probably Yu-ying, with the
astuteness of the Chinese character, guessed that Hagar could not and
would not sell it; hence his raid on the shop window. However, the
idol was gone, and Hagar judged it wise to advise Nat Prime
immediately of the loss. It might be that he knew the whereabouts of
Yu-ying, and could tax him with the theft. Thinking this the best
course to adopt under the circumstances, Hagar wrote to Prime at the
address he had given her. Then she prepared to receive him, and to
make the best of a bad business. In her letter she made no mention of
the theft.

It was two days before Prime appeared in person to answer her note;
and he explained his negligence by stating that he had been down at
Brighton to interview a friend. Then he asked to see the jade idol, to
assure himself that it was safe. When Hagar told him of its loss, and
of Yu-ying's exploit, his rage was frightful. He swore volubly for ten
minutes; and such was his command of bad language that he scarcely
repeated himself in delivering a string of oaths. In his subsequent
conversation it may be as well to omit these flowers of speech.

"I knew that blamed Chinaman had followed me!" he said, when somewhat
calmer, "if y' mind, miss, I went to look if the coast wor clear. He
must ha' sneaked round the corner, I guess. Cuss all Celestials, say
I!"

"I am sorry the idol is gone, Mr. Prime---"

"Now, miss, don's 'ee say another word. How was a young gal like you
to best a Chinky? Why, Yu-ying 'ud have the teeth out of yer 'ead
afore ye cud say knife!"

"Still, I am to blame," persisted Hagar. "I should not have put the
jade god in the window."

"Winder or no winder, it 'ud have been jest the same," returned Nat,
gloomily; "if Yu-ying hadn't got the god so easily, he'd have burgled
the shop to get it. Aye, miss, and have cut your throat into the
bargain!"

"Why does he want this idol so particularly?"

"Fur the same reason as I do. Fifty thousand pounds is the reason!"

"Fifty thousand pounds!" echoed Hagar, drawing back: "the idol isn't
worth that!"

"Not in itself, miss; but it kin git that cash. I reckoned to have it
myself, and chuck deep-sea sailing; but now I opines that blamed John
Chinaman's scooped the pool."

"Why don't you look up Yu-ying and tax him with the theft?"

"He'd only lie, miss; and as fur looking him up, I guess he's made
himself mighty scarce by this time. But I'll go on the trail, anyhow.
Good-day t' ye, miss, and don't you put trust in them Chinese devils."

After which speech Nat rolled away with a philosophical air, leaving
Hagar very regretful for having contributed to the loss of the idol by
her negligence and perverse folly. All the same, she did not believe
the statement about the fifty thousand pounds. Yet, as she might have
argued, but did not, Nat had told the truth concerning the desire of
Yu-ying to possess the idol, so why should he not have spoken truly
concerning the money? And, after all, Hagar knew no details likely to
confirm the tale. On consideration she dismissed Nat and Yu-ying and
the jade Kwan-tai from her thoughts, and considered that she had
purchased a new experience at the cost of thirty shillings.

In the meantime, Nat was seated in the taproom of the Nelson, down the
docks way, with a pipe in his mouth and a tankard of beer before him.
For several days he had sat thus alone waiting--as would appear from
his expectant attitude--for some visitor. Four days after the loss of
the idol, he was no longer by himself, for in a chair near him sat a
dried-up, alert man clothed in black, with bright eyes and a keen
expression. This individual was a gentleman--a doctor--and the visitor
expected by Nat Prime.

"If y'd on'y come a week ago, I'd not have pawned the idol," said Nat,
in a gloomy tone, "an' the blamed thing wouldn't have been lost."

"Yes, yes; I see, I see. But why did you pawn it?" asked the doctor,
fretfully.

"Why," said Prime, drily, "'cause I didn't want my throat cut by Yu-
ying; as long as I carried that idol on me, my life wasn't worth a red
cent!"

"How did Yu-ying learn the value of the idol?"

"He was a priest in the war-god's temple, I reckon. I've seed him do
joss-pigeon a dozen times; and when he kim on board the Havelock as
stewart I guessed as he wos arter the idol. But I slept with one eye
open," added Nat, triumphantly, "an' I guess he didn't best me till I
put Kwan-tai into that blamed pop-shop!"

"But I don't see how he gained a knowledge of the iron box in London,"
persisted the doctor, irritably, "or learnt about Poa's treasure."

Prime drank some beer, and leant forward to speak, emphasizing his
remarks by means of his pipe stem. "Now, look'ee here, Dr. Dick," said
he, slowly, "what wos it y' told me a year ago, afore I went this trip
to Chiner?"

"Why," said Dr. Dick, thoughtfully, "I told you that my uncle had been
at the sack of the Summer Palace in Pekin. Chinese helped to loot the
place as well as the French and English. Among these a priest called
Poa collected a number of small gold images of Kwan-tai to the value
of fifty thousand pounds, and fled with them to England. He placed
these in an iron box, and left it with a countryman of his own in
London. After selling a few of the images he returned to China, and to
his service as a priest in the Temple of Kwan-tai in Canton. He
intended to send for the iron box, and restore the images of the god
to his temple; but, struck down by sickness, he was unable to carry
out his intention. Fearful of being tortured for sacrilege if he told
the truth, Poa wrote in Chinese characters a description of the
whereabouts of the treasure in London, and placed the paper in the
interior of a small jade idol, with diamond eyes, which stood in the
Kwan-tai Temple in the Street of the Water Dragon. My uncle did some
service for Poa, who, out of gratitude, told him the secret. Shortly
afterwards he died, and my uncle, unable to gain access to the temple
and steal the idol, was forced to return to England. He took up his
residence at Christchurch, Hants, and died there, leaving a paper
telling the story of Poa's treasure. I found the paper two years ago,
and knowing you were trading to Canton, I came up to see you."

"Yes," said Prime, taking up the thread of the story, "and you asked
me to get the jade idol out of that there temple. Well, I stole it,
and I believe that pig of a Yu-ying saw me stealing. Any rate, he
turned up aboard of the Havelock, and somehow--I can't guess in what
way--he learnt the whole yarn, and tried to git back the idol. I
bested him on the voyage; and when I kim ashore I expected to find you
and get the iron box right away. I---"

"I was ill," interrupted Dick, impatiently. "I couldn't come up. You
might have got the treasure yourself and then shared it with me."

"Now, that's blamed silly, doctor! I couldn't read the Chinese writing
which I found inside the idol; and as you're a Chinese scholard--
taught by your uncle, y' said--I waited fur you to kim up and read it.
Fur safety, I put the idol in the pop-shop, and Yu-ying--cuss him--
followed me and stole it. So I guess by this time he's got the whole
lot of the golden gods."

"Probably; but how did he learn that they were in existence, and that
the production of the jade idol was necessary to obtain the treasure
of Poa?"

"Can't say, sir, onless that Poa told some of his brother priests."

"Poa died fifteen years ago," replied Dick, sharply; "if he had told
them on his death-bed, they would not have waited all this time to get
the treasure."

"Well, I calc'late as they've annexed the same this trip," said Nat,
coolly.

While thus conversing, the landlord of the Nelson entered the tap-
room, and informed Prime that a lady wished to see him. Rather
surprised--for he had few female friends--Nat instructed that the
visitor should be admitted. In a moment or so she appeared on the
threshold, and, to his still greater surprise, Nat beheld Hagar.

"'Tis the pop-shop gal!" he said, rising. "And what might you want,
miss?"

"To restore to you the jade idol," replied Hagar, taking the god Kwan-
tai out of her pocket.

"Glory alleluia!" shouted Nat, snatching it from her grasp. "How the
creation did you git it?"

"When I opened the shop door this morning, it was hanging to the knob
by a string."

"Yu-ying couldn't make anything out of it, I guess. Here, doctor, see
if the paper's inside."

Dick, in a state of considerable excitement, having been previously
instructed by his uncle's paper how to discover the secret, unscrewed
the head of the idol. When removed, a cavity was revealed; inside the
cavity a strip of rice paper, scrawled with Chinese characters in
vermilion.

While he was deciphering these, Nat turned to Hagar.

"Thankee, miss," he said, graciously. "If we git the money, I'll give
'ee a pound or so."

"I don't want it," replied Hagar, abruptly. "Give me the pawn-ticket
and thirty-one shillings--that is, what I gave