it back," he said. "I expect my father has found out that she has sent it to me, and is furious."
"Well, send it back and have done with it," said Hay, impatiently; "you are in danger of becoming a bore with that brooch, Beecot. I'll lend you money if you like."
"No, thanks, I have three pounds honestly earned. However, we'll speak no more of the brooch. I'll send it back this very day. Tell me," he linked his arm within that of his friend, "tell me of that man."
"That man – of the working creature," said Hay, absently. "Pooh, the man was no more a working man than I am."
"Well, I thought myself he was a bit of a fraud."
"Detectives never do make up well," said Grexon, calmly.
Paul stopped as they turned into Oxford Street. "What? Was the man a detective?"
"I think so, from your description of his conversation. The fact is I'm in love with a lady who is married. We have behaved quite well, and no one can say a word against us. But her husband is a beast and wants a divorce. I have suspected for some time that he is having me watched. Thanks to you, Paul, I am now sure. So perhaps you will understand why the man warned you against me and talked of my being a man-on-the-market."
"I see," said Paul, hesitating; "but don't get into trouble, Hay."
"Oh, I'm all right. And I don't intend to do anything dishonorable, if that is what you mean. It's the husband's fault, not mine. By the way, can you describe the fellow?"
"Yes. He had red hair and a red beard – rather a ruddy face, and walked with a limp."
"All put on," said Hay, contemptuously; "probably the limp was affected, the beard false, the hair a wig, and the face rouged – very clumsy indeed. I daresay he'll appear pale and gentlemanly the next time he watches me. I know the tricks of these fellows."
The two friends talked for some time about this episode, and then branched off into other subjects. Hay described the married lady he adored, and Paul rebuked him for entertaining such a passion. "It's not right, Hay," said he, positively; "you can't respect a woman who runs away from her husband."
"She hasn't run away yet, Sir Galahad," laughed Grexon. "By Jove, you are an innocent!"
"If that means respecting the institution of marriage and adoring women as angels I hope I'll remain an innocent."
"Oh, women are angels, of course," said Hay as they walked down Gwynne Street; "it's a stock phrase in love-making. But there are angels of two sorts. Dulcinea is – "
"Here we are," interrupted Paul, quickly. Somehow it irritated him to hear this hardened sinner speak of Sylvia, and he began to think that Grexon Hay had deteriorated. Not that he was considered to be particularly good at Torrington school. In fact, Paul remembered that he had been thoroughly disliked. However, he had no time to go into the matter, for at this moment Aaron appeared at the door of the shop. He stepped out on to the pavement as Paul approached. "Come in," he said, "I want to see you – privately," he added, casting a frightened look at Hay.
"In that case I'll leave you," said Grexon, disengaging his arm from Paul. "Dulcinea must wait for another occasion. Go in and do your business. I'll wait without."
Paul thanked his friend by a look and went into the shop with the old man. "That brooch," said Aaron, in a timid whisper, "have you got it? Give it to me – quick – quick."
There was no one in the shop as Bart had apparently gone out on an errand. The door leading to the stairs, down which Sylvia had so often descended, was closed, and no one was about to overhear their conversation. "I have the brooch," said Paul, "but – "
"Give it to me – give it," panted Aaron. "I'll buy it – at a large price. Ask what you want."
"Why are you so eager to get it?" demanded Beecot, astonished.
"That's my business," said Norman, in a suddenly imperious manner. "I want it. The stones take my fancy," he ended weakly.
"Was that why you fainted?" asked Paul, suspiciously.
"No." The man grew white and leaned against the counter, breathing heavily. "Where did you get the brooch?" he asked, trying to keep himself calm, but with a visible effort.
"I got it from my mother, and she received it from my father – "
"Beecot – Beecot," said the old man, fingering his lips, much agitated. "I know no one of that name save yourself, and you are not a spy – a scoundrel – a – a – " He caught the eyes of Paul fixed on him in amazement, and suddenly changed his tone. "Excuse me, but the brooch reminds me of trouble."
"You have seen it before?"
"Yes – that is no – don't ask me." He clutched at his throat as though he felt choked. "I can't talk of it. I daren't. How did your father get it?"
More and more astonished, Paul explained. Aaron listened with his one eye very bright, and made uneasy motions with his lean hands as the young man spoke. When Beecot ended he bit his nails. "Yes, yes," he murmured to himself, "it would be asked for back. But it sha'n't go back. I want it. Sell it to me, Mr. Beecot."
"I'm sorry I can't," replied Paul, good-naturedly. "But my mother wired that it was to be returned. My father has discovered that she sent it to me and is not pleased."
"Did you tell your mother you had shown it to me?"
"No. There was no need."
"God bless you!" breathed the man, pulling out a crimson handkerchief. "Of course there was no need," he tittered nervously. "It doesn't do to talk of pawning things – not respectable, eh – eh." He wiped his face and passed his tongue over his white lips. "Well, you won't sell it to me?"
"I can't. But I'll ask my mother if she will."
"No, no! Don't do that – say nothing – say nothing. I don't want the brooch. I never saw the brooch – what brooch – pooh – pooh, don't talk to me of the brooch," and so he babbled on.
"Mr. Norman," said Beecot, gravely, "what is the story connected with the brooch?"
Aaron flung up his hands and backed towards the counter. "No, no. Don't ask me. What do you mean? I know no story of a brooch – what brooch – I never saw one – I never – ah" – he broke off in relief as two pale-faced, spectacled girls entered the shop – "customers. What is it, ladies? How can I serve you?" And he bustled away behind the counter, giving all his attention to the customers, yet not without a sidelong look in the direction of the perplexed Paul.
That young gentleman, finding it impossible to get further speech with Aaron, and suspecting from his manner that all was not right, left the shop. He determined to take the brooch to Wargrove himself, and to ask his mother about it. Then he could learn why she wanted it back – if not from her, then from his father. This knowledge might explain the mystery.
"Did you sell the brooch?" asked Grexon as they walked up Gwynne Street.
"No. I have to send it back to my mother, and – "
"Hold on!" cried Hay, stumbling. "Orange-peel – ah – "
His stumble knocked Paul into the middle of the road. A motor car was coming down swiftly. Before Hay could realize what had taken place Paul was under the wheels of the machine.
CHAPTER
