e one
he had described, was in the possession of an old Chatham street Jew,
and they went together in search of this man.

The old Israelite was dreadfully afraid of getting himself into
difficulty, but Mr. Hollywell satisfied his fears in regard to that, and
assured him that the gentleman would reward him liberally for any
disclosures that he might make regarding this particular bracelet.

Then it came out that the bracelet had been disposed of for a
considerable sum--it was a sale rather than a deposit. The man who
brought it there had more than once come to the shop on similar errands;
and always pledged valuable ornaments or sold them recklessly for
whatever would satisfy the needs of the moment.

Mr. Mellen grew more interested when he described the man's appearance;
the keen eyes of the money-lender and the sharp sight of the old Jew,
accustomed to reading countenances, saw a singular expression of
uncertainty rested upon his face, which took a slow, deadly paleness as
the identity of this man seemed to strike him.

He walked several times up and down the little den where the aged
Israelite kept watch, like a bloated spider ready to pounce upon any
unwary fly that might venture into his mesh, and at last returned to the
place where the two men were standing.

"Have you any of that man's writing?" he asked. "Just a scrap--I don't
ask to see his name--only a few words in his writing."

The old Jew looked doubtful.

"Sometimes he has write me, my good sare, but not often, he ish very
careful--very careful."

"And have you nothing by you?"

The old Jew turned to a great desk that filled up one end of the dark
room, unlocked a variety of doors and drawers, turned over piles of
dirty notes, and at last selected a scrap of paper from among them.

"This is his writin'," he said, in a guttural whisper. "I'm taking great
trouble, great trouble," he whined; "de good gentleman ought to remember
that."

"You shall be well rewarded," said Mr. Mellen impatiently, snatching the
paper from his hand.

He glanced at the writing--the paleness of his face grew death-like--he
stood like a statue, with his eyes rivetted upon the page, while the two
men regarded him in silence.

The writing was peculiar. It had an individuality so marked and so
increased by practice, that any person who had seen a page of the
delicate characters, could have sworn to the writing among whole
volumes.

Mr. Mellen looked up--the astonishme