"Yes, very wrong. But—it is neither theft nor murder," he added, his eyes lighting up with their luminous smile. A smile that so strangely, one could not tell how, imparted a feeling of confidence in him to whomsoever it was cast upon. They took the first conveyance, and were soon in Oxford Street. The master of the shop was in, as before, and listened to a few offered words of explanation. He called the same young man in—Simms. "Look at this gentleman," he said, indicating Mr. Henry. "Do you recognize him as one of our customers?" Mr. Simms ran his eyes over Mr. Henry, and shook his head conclusively. "No, sir; I don't remember ever to have seen him." "Is he the gentleman who pledged that gold pencil with the diamond top?" "Oh dear no, sir. That person was older than this gentleman. They are not in the least alike." "Just so," said Dr. Brabazon. "Will you give me a description of that person?" Mr. Simms complied. "A party getting on for thirty-five, I should say, sir: rather shabby than not, but talked offhand like a gentleman. Hair had a reddish cast; and party walked, I believe, a little lame." "Lame!" exclaimed the doctor, in a startled tone. "You did not mention any lameness the other day, Simms," interposed the jeweller. "No, sir; I didn't know it then. When I was telling Watson afterwards about questions being asked as to who had pledged that article, he said the party walked lame; least-ways, that he limped in going out of the shop. I hadn't noticed it, and so I told him; but Watson was positive." Dr. Brabazon looked like a man who has received a blow. He went home leaning on Mr. Henry's arm, as if he needed the support. "Forgive me for having entertained a doubt of you," he murmured, as he wrung his hand at parting. "Perhaps when you tell me of this trouble of yours I may be able to make it up to you. I know now who it was took my pencil." And so did Mr. Henry know; for he had recognized the description and the lameness. Mr. Tom Brabazon was the culprit; and had no doubt enjoyed amazingly the joke of giving in the Reverend Mr. Jebb's name, and taking in the shopmen with his assumption of innocent inexperience. Before the time had expired for the running out of the pledge, he would probably have enclosed the ticket to Dr. Brabazon, or to Emma, with Mr. Jebb's name on it as large as life. As Mr. Henry was turning from the college gate, Sir Simon Orville's pony carriage drew up, himself and Trace in it, the latter driving. Sir Simon ran after Dr. Brabazon, who was then crossing the lawn; Trace, conveniently near-sighted to the German master, remained in the carriage, and turned his head the other way. However, Mr. Henry went up to him. "Trace, I have a question to ask you. I understand you have been suspecting that it was I who took the Head Master's pencil. Will you tell me what reason you had for this?"