it in a thousand--just like a thief's,
ain't it?--stealing as you might say. Don't tell him you've seen me."

"But Sylvia," cried Paul, catching her dress as she passed him.

"Her you'll see, if I die for it," said Deborah, and whirled up the
wooden steps in a silent manner surprising in so noisy a woman. Paul
heard the trap-door drop with a stealthy creak.

As a key grated in the lock of the outside door he glanced round the
place to which he had penetrated for the first time. It was of the same
size as the shop overhead, but the walls were of stone, green with slime
and feathery with a kind of ghastly white fungus. Overhead, from the
wooden roof, which formed the floor of the shop, hung innumerable
spider's webs thick with dust. The floor was of large flags cracked in
many places, and between the chinks in moist corners sprouted sparse,
colorless grass. In the centre was a deal table, scored with queer marks
and splotched with ink. Over this flared two gas-jets, which whistled
shrilly. Against the wall, which was below the street, were three green
painted safes fast locked: but the opposite wall had in it the narrow
door aforesaid, and a wide grated window, the bars of which were rusty,
though strong. The atmosphere of the place was cold and musty and
suggestive of a charnel house. Certainly a strange place in which to
transact business, but everything about Aaron Norman was strange.

And he looked strange himself as he stepped in at the open door. Beyond,
Paul could see the shallow flight of damp steps leading to the yard and
the passage which gave admission from the street. Norman locked the door
and came forward. He was as white as a sheet, and his face was thickly
beaded with perspiration. His mouth twitched more than usual, and his
hands moved nervously. Twice as he advanced towards Paul, who rose to
receive him, did he cast the odd look over his shoulder. Beecot
fancifully saw in him a man who had committed some crime and was fearful
lest it should be discovered, or lest the avenger should suddenly
appear. Deborah's confidential talk had not been without its effects on
the young man, and Paul beheld in Aaron a being of mystery. How such a
man came to have such a daughter as Sylvia, Paul could not guess.

"Here you are, Mr. Beecot," said Aaron, rubbing his hands as though the
cold of the cellar struck to his bones. "Well?"

"I want to pawn a brooch," said Beecot, slipping his hand into his
breast pocket.