gain out of this one in a
roundabout fashion; but it was handsome. If you've got half an hour to
spare I'll tell you about it."

This was his story:

It was eight years ago, and I'd had Isaac for seven years, and concluded
that he was to be trusted. So I took it into my head to have a
fortnight's holiday and leave him in charge of the shop. Everything was
in order when I came back, and the books balanced to a penny. Business
had been pretty good, he told me, but nothing out of the ordinary.

"Unless," he said, "I've stumbled on a good thing by accident. It's a
ditty-box; rather a superior one, and a good bit bigger than usual;
almost a chest; brass bound and a nice bit of poker-work on it; a girl's
head. I've put it in your bedroom."

"Ah!" I said. "Ah-h!" He wouldn't make this fuss over a bit of
poker-work, I knew.

"The mate of the _Saucy Jane_ brought it here," he went on. "It belonged
to the captain. George Markby, the name was; and that's poker-work on
it, too. He sickened of a fever over at Rotterdam and died at sea; and
they sold off his things to send the money to his widow. I gave a
sovereign for it. There's a tray inside with a lock-up till. Keys all
complete. Ought to fetch thirty-five shillings."

"As much as that?" I said. I knew there must be a good deal more in it
than appeared, but it's no use hurrying Isaac. He likes to tell things
his own way.

"I thought it might suit you to lock up your books and papers. That was
all--till the day before yesterday. Then a ginger-haired sailor came in.
North countryman. Wanted a ditty-box, he said. I told him we weren't
marine outfitters, and he'd better try Barnard's, round the corner. He
said he didn't want the ordinary sort, but something out of the common;
extra large size; brass-bound; tray with a lock-up till. 'Mind if it
was a trifle old?' I asked. 'Carved or cut about a bit? You know how
some chaps use their knives on them, just to pass the time.' He said he
didn't care for things that were hacked about, but he wouldn't object to
a bit of poker-work on it. I told him I'd look through the warehouse and
let him know in the morning, and he went. Byles, the dock policeman, was
standing outside. I went and asked him who the chap was. He said he was
cook on the _Anne Traylor_, just come in, and he believed he'd done
time. If he hadn't I'll swear he ought to have, from the look of him.

"About half an hour afterward in walks an oldish chap with a stoop and a