urchases was
distinctly the most astonishing variation on the string bag or marketing
basket of suburban civilisation that his fellow-shoppers had ever seen.
He threw a gold piece, apparently of some exotic currency, across the
counter, and did not seem disposed to wait for any change that might be
forthcoming.

"The wine and figs were not paid for yesterday," he said; "keep what is
over of the money for our future purchases."

"A very strange-looking boy?" said Mrs. Greyes interrogatively to the
grocer as soon as his customer had left.

"A foreigner, I believe," said Mr. Scarrick, with a shortness that was
entirely out of keeping with his usually communicative manner.

"I wish for a pound and a half of the best coffee you have," said an
authoritative voice a moment or two later. The speaker was a tall,
authoritative-looking man of rather outlandish aspect, remarkable among
other things for a full black beard, worn in a style more in vogue in
early Assyria than in a London suburb of the present day.

"Has a dark-faced boy been here buying pomegranates?" he asked suddenly,
as the coffee was being weighed out to him.

The two ladies almost jumped on hearing the grocer reply with an
unblushing negative.

"We have a few pomegranates in stock," he continued, "but there has been
no demand for them."

"My servant will fetch the coffee as usual," said the purchaser,
producing a coin from a wonderful metal-work purse. As an apparent
afterthought he fired out the question: "Have you, perhaps, any quail
seed?"

"No," said the grocer, without hesitation, "we don't stock it."

"What will he deny next?" asked Mrs. Greyes under her breath. What made
it seem so much worse was the fact that Mr. Scarrick had quite recently
presided at a lecture on Savonarola.

Turning up the deep astrachan collar of his long coat, the stranger swept
out of the shop, with the air, Miss Fritten afterwards described it, of a
Satrap proroguing a Sanhedrim. Whether such a pleasant function ever
fell to a Satrap's lot she was not quite certain, but the simile
faithfully conveyed her meaning to a large circle of acquaintances.

"Don't let's bother about the 3.12," said Mrs. Greyes; "let's go and talk
this over at Laura Lipping's. It's her day."

When the dark-faced boy arrived at the shop next day with his brass
marketing bowl there was quite a fair gathering of customers, most of
whom seemed to be spinning out their purchasing operations w