you sell secondhand jewellery here, and want to know if you care
to buy a watch," she began, with rather less assurance than at her
former interview.

"It depends on the article. Have you brought it with you?" replied the
old man cautiously.

"It's real gold, and so is the chain," volunteered Gipsy, as she
produced her treasure.

Mr. Daniel Lucas examined both watch and chain with minute care, then
shook his head deprecatingly.

"I'm afraid it wouldn't be of much use to me. You see, it's not exactly
in the nature of an antique," he replied.

Gipsy's face fell. To get the money for her journey was a matter of
vital importance.

"Couldn't you offer me anything for it?" she pleaded.

The bleary red eyes glanced at her keenly, and appeared to appreciate
her disappointment.

"Well, to oblige you, I might go to a matter of seven and six."

"Couldn't you possibly make it ten shillings, with the chain?" hazarded
Gipsy. She had no idea of the value of secondhand articles, and thought
only of what amount would take her to Liverpool.

"All right--with the chain. But it's a poor bargain for me, mind you.
I'm only doing it just to oblige you," returned Mr. Lucas, opening a
drawer and counting out four half-crowns with an alacrity that belied
his words. Thankful to have concluded the transaction on any terms,
Gipsy seized the money and beat a hasty retreat. She was extremely
anxious to reach the station before Miss Poppleton missed her and sent
somebody in search of her. She had no idea of the times of the
trains, but trusted to luck to catch the next that would take her
anywhere in the right direction. With her four precious half-crowns
grasped tightly in her hand, she hurried back up the sordid street, and
took the shortest cut possible to the railway station. There was quite a
crowd at the booking office, so she was able to take her place in the
queue of prospective travellers and to obtain her ticket without
attracting any special attention.

"Liverpool?" said the inspector who stood at the platform door. "You've
just time if you're quick. That's the train over there on No. 3."

Gipsy fled across the bridge with a speed that seriously interfered with
the convenience of passengers coming in the opposite direction; she
rattled down the steps on to Platform 3, and, nearly falling over a pile
of luggage, flung herself into the first third-class compartment that
came to hand.

"Am I right for Liverpool?" she gasped t