He conducted us into the cavernous back room. The atmosphere was heavy with the scent of stale cookery. The walls were lined with shelves, bearing mysterious parcels done up in paper winding-sheets. Under a grimy window at the further end an old man sat in an easy chair, a patch-work quilt infolding his legs. Bald, beardless, with sharply accentuated features and a yellow skin, he looked like a Midas whose magic was beginning to operate upon himself. “Dear me!” cried Merivale, advancing toward him. “I’m shocked to find you suffering like this, Mr. Arkush. Do the legs give you much pain? You must try petroleum liniment. I’ll send you a bottle. They say it’s the best remedy in the world.—But tell me, how are you getting on? Do you notice any improvement?” The old man’s face wore a puzzled expression. “What was the business you wanted to see me about?” he inquired. “Oh, never mind about business till you have quieted my anxiety regarding your health. Besides, are you sure you will be able to attend?” The mask of Midas betrayed a tendency to smile. “Come, time is money; hurry up,” said its owner. He had a strong Jewish accent, thus: “Dime iss money.” “Oh, well,” said Merivale, “if you don’t think it will disturb you, I’ll come to the point. But let me disarm beforehand any suspicion which the nature of my errand may be calculated to inspire. I am not a detective. I am not on the track of stolen goods. I am simply a private individual desirous of gaining certain information for certain strictly legitimate ends. So you need have no fear of compromising yourself by speaking with entire unreserve. Shall I proceed?” “My Gott, what are you talking about? Don’t make foolishness any longer,” exclaimed Mr. Arkush with some degree of vivacity. “Mr. Arkush,” said Merivale in his most solemn tones, “do you remember this?” extracting the miniature from his pocket and handing it to the pawnbroker. The latter donned a pair of spectacles and holding the picture off at arm’s length, scrutinized it in silence. “Yes, I remember it,” he replied finally, “I sold it to a gentleman some time ago. What of it?” “You did. You sold it about a year ago to a gentleman with a white beard. Recollect?” “Ah, yes, yes: you are right. He had a white beard. He was also a Jew. We spoke in Judisch. I remember.” “By Jove, hasn’t Mr. Arkusha wonderful memory?” cried Merivale, turning to me. “I happen to remember,” volunteered Mr. Arkush, unperturbed by the compliment, “because when I put that article into the window I said to myself, ‘You won’t get no customer for that. What good is it to anyone? You made a mistake to lend your money on it. That was a loss.’ But the very same day the old gentleman came in and bought it, which was a surprise.” “Ah, I see. Could you tell me, Mr. Arkush, of whom you got it originally—who pledged it with you?” “Du lieber Gott! how should I remember that? It was two years ago already.” “True, but—but your books would show.”