counter. The fellow rose to his feet,
and returned the stare a little curiously, and then began in stereotyped
phrase--

'What can I do for you, sir?'

Dyson enjoyed the situation and a dawning perplexity on the man's face.
He propped his stick carefully against the counter and leaning over it,
said slowly and impressively--

'Once around the grass, and twice around the lass, and thrice around the
maple-tree.'

Dyson had calculated on his words producing an effect, and he was not
disappointed. The vendor of miscellanies gasped, open-mouthed like a
fish, and steadied himself against the counter. When he spoke, after a
short interval, it was in a hoarse mutter, tremulous and unsteady.

'Would you mind saying that again, sir? I didn't quite catch it.'

'My good man, I shall most certainly do nothing of the kind. You heard
what I said perfectly well. You have got a clock in your shop, I see; an
admirable timekeeper, I have no doubt. Well, I give you a minute by your
own clock.'

The man looked about him in a perplexed indecision, and Dyson felt that
it was time to be bold.

'Look here, Travers, the time is nearly up. You have heard of Q, I
think. Remember, I hold your life in my hands. Now!'

Dyson was shocked at the result of his own audacity. The man shrank and
shrivelled in terror, the sweat poured down a face of ashy white, and he
held up his hands before him.

'Mr. Davies, Mr. Davies, don't say that--don't for Heaven's sake. I
didn't know you at first, I didn't indeed. Good God! Mr. Davies, you
wouldn't ruin me? I'll get it in a moment.'

'You had better not lose any more time.'

The man slunk piteously out of his own shop, and went into a back
parlour. Dyson heard his trembling fingers fumbling with a bunch of
keys, and the creak of an opening box. He came back presently with a
small package neatly tied up in brown paper in his hands, and, still
full of terror, handed it to Dyson.

'I'm glad to be rid of it,' he said. 'I'll take no more jobs of this
sort.'

Dyson took the parcel and his stick, and walked out of the shop with a
nod, turning round as he passed the door. Travers had sunk into his
seat, his face still white with terror, with one hand over his eyes,
and Dyson speculated a good deal as he walked rapidly away as to what
queer chords those could be on which he had played so roughly. He hailed
the first hansom he could see and drove home, and when he had lit his
hanging lamp, and laid his p