ch was
seldom, his eye revealed a hunted look like that of a wearied beast
fearful lest it should be dragged from its lair.

It was this strange-looking man that Paul Beecot encountered in the
doorway of the Gwynne Street shop the day after his meeting with Hay.
Many a visit had Paul paid to that shop, and not always to buy books.
Norman knew him very well, and, recognizing him in a fleeting look as he
passed through the doorway, smiled weakly. Behind the counter stood Bart
Tawsey, the lean underling, who was much sharper with buyers than was
his master, but after a disappointed glance in his direction Paul
addressed himself to the bookseller. "I wish to see you particularly,"
he said, with his eager air.

"I am going out on important business," said Norman, "but if you will
not be very long--"

"It's about a brooch I wish to pawn."

The old man's mouth became hard and his eyes sharper. "I can't attend to
that now, Mr. Beecot," he said, and his voice rang out louder than
usual. "After seven."

"It's only six now," said Paul, looking over his shoulder at a church
clock which could be seen clearly in the pale summer twilight. "I can't
wait."

"Well, then, as you are an old customer--of books," said Aaron, with
emphasis, "I'll stretch a point. You can go below at a quarter to seven,
and I'll come round through the outside passage to see you. Meantime, I
must go about my business," and he went away with his head hanging and
his solitary eye searching the ground as usual.

Paul, in spite of his supposed hurry, was not ill-pleased that Aaron had
gone out and that there was an idle hour before him. He stepped lightly
into the shop, and, under the flaring gas--which was lighted, so dark
was the interior of the shop in spite of the luminous gloaming--he
encountered the smile of Barty. Paul, who was sensitive and proudly
reticent, grew red. He knew well enough that his apparent admiration of
Sylvia Norman had attracted the notice of Bart and of the red-armed
wench, Deborah Junk, who was the factotum of the household. Not that he
minded, for both these servants were devoted to Sylvia, and knowing that
she returned the feelings of Paul said nothing about the position to
Aaron. Beecot could not afford to make enemies of the pair, and had no
wish to do so. They were coarse-grained and common, but loyal and kindly
of heart.

"Got any new books, Bart?" asked Beecot, coming forward with roving
eyes, for he hoped to see Sylvia