in a
particularly quiet tone.

"I don't know what I _do_ mean," said Paul. "Do you remember that
working man with the bag of tools who was across the road when we last
conversed?"

"No," said Hay, staring, "I never notice creatures of that class. Why?"

"Because he asked me who you were and where you lived. It seems you owe
him some money."

"That is very probable," said Hay, equably. "I owe most people money,
and if this man has a debt against me he would certainly know all about
me as to address and name."

"So I thought," replied Paul, "but the queer thing is that he told me to
take care, and called you a man-on-the-market. What does it mean? I
never heard the phrase before."

"I have," said Hay, proceeding calmly down the somewhat steep stairs; "a
man-on-the-market means one who wants to marry and is eligible for any
heiress who comes along with a sufficient rent-roll. But why should a
fellow like that talk the shibboleth of Society?"

Paul shrugged his shoulders. "I can't say. Perhaps the man guessed I
intended to take you to see Sylvia, and warned me against you, as it
seems from his phrase that you wish to marry."

"Ah! Then your Dulcinea is an heiress?" said Hay, fixing his eye-glass
carefully; "if so, you needn't fear me. I am almost engaged and won't be
on the market any longer. What confounded cheek this fellow addressing
you in that way and talking of me as he did. I suppose," he added with
a cold laugh, "it is not necessary for me to defend myself."

"What rubbish," replied Beecot, good-naturedly. "All the same, it is
strange the man should have spoken to me as he did. I told him to go to
the devil."

"And go to the devil he assuredly will if I meet him," was the dry
reply. "I'll break his head for not minding his own business. I think I
can explain, and will do so as soon as you take that telegram the lad is
holding out for you."

Grexon was quicker-sighted than Paul, for the moment they arrived at the
bottom of the stairs and were about to emerge into the street he saw the
messenger. "Do you know if any gent of that name lives here, guvnor?"
asked the boy, holding out the buff-colored envelope.

Beecot, to his surprise, saw his own name. "Who can be wiring to me?" he
said, taking the telegram. "Wait, boy, there may be an answer," and he
skimmed through the lines. "Don't sell the brooch, but send it back,"
read Paul, puzzled, "your father angry.--MOTHER." He paused, and looked
at the boy. "