“But now,” I added, my recital wound up, “now perhaps in this miniature I have a clew. It must be a portrait of my father: and very likely it was part of the contents of that box. I suppose, if I were clever, I should see a way of following it up.” “I am consoled,” said Merivale, drawing a deep breath. “Consoled?” I queried. “Yes, consoled for my obstinacy in making you play at the concert. You see, it was an inspiration after all. If you had not chanced upon Tikulski—what a blood-curdling name! fit for a tragedy villain—if you hadn’t chanced upon him as you did, why you never would have received the picture, and so the mystery which envelops my hero s antecedents would never have been dispelled. Now we must go to work in a systematic way. “Exactly; but how begin?” “Let me see Tikulski’s letter again.”—After he had read the letter, “Begin, he said, by paying a visit to the pawn-shop where he got it. Luckily he had the presence of mind to mention its whereabouts.” “Good,” I assented. “But will you go with me?” “Do you imagine I would allow you to go alone, you unfledged gosling? I shall not only go with you, but by your permission I shall manage the whole transaction. I fancy I surpass you in respect of savoir faire.” “It is now past four. Shall we start at once?” “Yes, of course.” “Don’t be too hopeful,” he warned me, as we approached the pawnbroker’s door. “Most likely we shall run against a dead wall.” The shop was empty. A bell tinkled as we opened the door. In response, a young fellow in his shirt-sleeves emerged from a dark back room. “Is Mr. Arkush in?” demanded Merivale, with an air of friendliness. “Do you want to see him personally?” returned the young man, not over politely. “You have fathomed my purpose,” said Merivale with mock gravity. “What about?” Merivale drew near to the young man and shielding his mouth with his hand whispered, “Business,” accompanying his utterance with a knowing glance. “Well, you can see me about business,” rejoined his interlocutor, surlily. “Impossible. Here, take my card to Mr. Arkush and say I am pressed.” “Mr. Arkush can’t see nobody. He’s sick. “Sick? Ah, indeed?” cried Merivale. “Has he been sick long? I hope it is nothing serious. Pray tell me what the trouble is?” The young man looked surprised. “Oh, it’s only rheumatism,” he said. “You ain’t a friend of his, are you?” “Why, my dear fellow, of course I am. By the very nature of his profession Mr. Arkush is the friend of every body; and I am the friend of every friend of mine. Consequently but the deduction is too obvious. Here, take him my card and say that if he is not too ill I shall hope to be admitted.’ “Well, perhaps I’d better,” said the young man, reflectively.—“Becky,” he called, raising his voice. Becky appeared. “Good-afternoon, Miss Rebecca,” said Merivale, lifting his hat. “Mind the shop,” said the young man to Becky, and thereat vanished. “Come this way,” he said to us, presently returning.