ton Garden, and to be more or less of a diamond
merchant there. He often carried about with him, in a pocket-book, or
in neat little packages of grocer's gay paper, borne in the
waistcoat-pocket, a collection of gems of considerable value, and would
show them to his intimates with the _insouciance_ of a man who was
accustomed to handling things of price. He never was without money, made
little journeys at times, which rarely took him away from town for more
than a day or two, and was, almost always, wholly unoccupied except for
the cards.

Now young Barter had a prodigious idea of this gentleman's astuteness.
He had no particular belief in his honesty, and he believed him, not
altogether unreasonably as the sequel proved, to be initiated into most
of the mysteries of modern rascality. This was merely a general notion,
based upon statements made by Steinberg himself, and supported by the
opinion of his intimates. Nobody spoke ill of Steinberg; it was only
understood that there was no move upon the board with which he was not
familiar. Young Barter, meeting him one evening at the club, whilst
Bommaney's disappearance was still a fresh topic of town conversation,
spoke to him about it, with an assurance clearly begotten of practice.

'Now, look here, Steinberg,' he said, in his open and engaging way.
'Suppose you'd nobbled those notes, what should you do with 'em?'

Perhaps Mr. Steinberg resented the form of this inquiry. But be that as
it may, he responded with some tartness,

'Suppose you'd nobbled them?'

At this chance thrust young Barter turned curiously red and white, and
had some ado to recover that open smile of his.

'Hang it,' he said, 'you can't suppose I meant it that way. But,' with a
half-hysteric courage, 'suppose you had--suppose I had--suppose anybody
had--what would he do? You, I, anybody?'

Mr. Steinberg sipped at his lemon squash--he drank that inspiring
liquid all the year round, and nothing else until cards for the day
were over--and puffed at his cigar, and looking young Barter full in the
face, nodded and smiled with an odd mingling of meaning and humour.

'Put him on to me,' he said, with perfect affability. 'I'll put him up
to it.'

'Rather dangerous, wouldn't it be?' said Barter, showing his white teeth
in a somewhat forced and ghastly manner.

'Everything's dangerous for an ass,' said Steinberg.

'I shouldn't have thought,' laughed Barter, 'that that was your line.'

He spoke as je