"I must go home now," she said, rising.
"Oh, no, not yet," he implored.
"Well, then, I'll stay for a few minutes longer, because I have something to say," she remarked, and sat down again. "Paul, do you think it is quite honorable for you and I to be engaged without the consent of my father?"
"Well," hesitated Beecot, "I don't think it is as it should be. Were I well off I should not fear to tell your father everything; but as I am a pauper he would forbid my seeing you did he learn that I had raised my eyes to you. But if you like I'll speak, though it may mean our parting for ever."
"Paul," she laid a firm, small hand on his arm, "not all the fathers in the world will keep me from you. Often I have intended to tell all, but my father is so strange. Sometimes he goes whole days without speaking to me, and at times he speaks harshly, though I do nothing to deserve rebuke. I am afraid of my father," said the girl, with a shiver. "I said so before, and I say so again. He is a strange man, and I don't understand him at all. I wish I could marry you and go away altogether."
"Well, let us marry if you like, though we will be poor."
"No," said Sylvia, sorrowfully; "after all, strange and harsh though my father is, he is still my father, and at times he is kind. I must stay with him to the end."
"What end?"
Sylvia shook her head still more sorrowfully. "Who knows? Paul, my father is afraid of dying suddenly."
"By violence?" asked Beecot, thinking of Deborah's talk.
"I can't say. But every day after six he goes to church and prays all alone. Deborah told me, as often she has seen him leave the church. Then he is afraid of every stranger who enters the shop. I don't understand it," cried the girl, passionately. "I don't like it. I wish you would marry me and take me away, Paul; but, oh, how selfish I am!"
"My own, I wish I could. But the money – "
"Oh, never mind the money. I must get away from that house. If it was not for Deborah I would be still more afraid. I often think my father is mad. But there," Sylvia rose and shook out her skirts, "I have no right to talk so, and only do so to you, that you may know what I feel. I'll speak to my father myself and say we are engaged. If he forbids our marriage I shall run away with you, Paul," said poor Sylvia, the tears in her eyes. "I am a bad girl to talk in this way. After all, he is my father."
Beecot had an ardent desire to take her in his arms and kiss away those tears, but the publicity of the meeting-place denied him the power to console her in that efficacious fashion. All he could do was to assure her of his love, and then they walked out of the gardens towards the Strand. "I'll speak to your father myself," said Paul; "we must end this necessary silence. After all, I am a gentleman, and I see no reason why your father should object."
"I know you are everything that is good and true," said Sylvia, drying her eyes. "If you were not Debby would not have let me become engaged to you," she finished childishly.
"Debby made inquiries about me," said Paul, laughing, to cheer her. "Yes! she sent Bart to Wargrove and found out all about me and my family and my respected father. She wished to be certain that I was a proper lover for her darling."
"I am your darling now," whispered Sylvia, squeezing his arm, "and you are the most charming lover in the world."
Paul was so enchanted with this speech that he would have defied public opinion by embracing her there and then, but Sylvia walked away rapidly down Gwynne Street and shook her head with a pursed-up mouth when Paul took a few steps after her. Recognizing that it would be wise not to follow her to the shop lest the suspicious old man should be looking out, Beecot went on his homeward way.
When he drew near his Bloomsbury garret he met Grexon Hay, who was sauntering along swinging his cane. "I was just looking for you," he said, greeting Paul in his usual self-contained manner; "it worries me to think you are so hard-up, though I'm not a fellow given to sentiment as a rule. Let me lend you a fiver."
Paul shook his head. "Thank you all the same."
"Well, then, sell me the brooch."
Beecot suddenly looked squarely at Hay, who met his gaze calmly. "Do you know anything of that brooch?" he asked.
"What do you mean? It is a brooch of Indian workmanship. That is all I know. I want to give a lady a present, and if you will sell it to me I'll take it, to help you, thus killing two birds at one shot."
"I don't want to sell it," said Paul, looking round. His eyes fell on a respectable man across the road, who appeared to be a workman, as he had a bag of tools on his shoulder. He was looking into a shop window, but also – as Paul suddenly thought – seemed to be observing him and Hay. However, the incident was not worth noticing, so he continued his speech to Grexon. "I tried to pawn it with Aaron Norman," he said.
"Well, what did you get on it?" asked Hay, with a yawn.
"Nothing. The old man fainted when I showed him the brooch. That is why I asked you if you know anything strange about the article."
Hay shook his head, but looked curiously at Beecot. "Do you know anything yourself?" he asked; "you seem to have something on your mind about that brooch."
"There is something queer about it," said Paul. "Why should Aaron Norman faint when he saw it?"
Hay yawned again. "You had better ask your one-eyed friend – I think you said he was one-eyed."
"He is, and a frightened sort of man. But there's nothing about that opal serpent to make him faint."
"Perhaps he did so because it is in the shape of a serpent," suggested Grexon; "a constitutional failing, perhaps. Some people hate cats and other fluttering birds. Your one-eyed friend may have a loathing of snakes and can't bear to see the representation of one."
"It might be that," said Beecot, after a pause. "Aaron is a strange sort of chap. A man with a past, I should say."
"You make me curious," said Grexon, laughing in a bored manner. "I think I'll go to the shop myself and have a look at him."
"Come with me when I next go," said Paul. "I had intended to call this afternoon; but I won't, until I hear from my mother."
"What about?"
"I want to learn how she came into possession of the brooch."
"Pooh, nonsense," said Hay, contemptuously, "you think too much about the thing. Who cares if a pawnbroker faints? Why I wish to go to the shop, is, because I am anxious to see your lady-love. Well, when you do want me to go, send for me; you have my address. 'Day, old man," and the gorgeous being sauntered away, with apparently not a care in the world to render him anxious.
Paul was anxious, however. The more he thought of the episode of the brooch the stranger it seemed, and Sylvia's talk of her father's queer habits did not make Paul wonder the less. However, he resolved to write to his mother, and was just mounting his stairs to do so when he heard a "Beg pardon, sir," and beheld the working man, bag of tools, pipe and all.
"Beg pardon, sir," said the man, civilly, "but that gentleman you was a-talking to. Know his name, sir?"
"What the devil's that to you?" asked Paul, angrily.
"Nothing, sir, only he owes me a little bill."
"Go and ask him for it then."
"I don't know his address, sir."
"Oh, be hanged!" Paul went on, when the man spoke again.
"He's what I call a man on the market, sir. Have a care," and he departed quickly.
Paul stared. What did the working man mean, and was he a working man?
CHAPTER IV
THE UNFORESEEN
Paul did not go near the Gwynne Street shop for the next few days,