They walked on towards the Circus, and presently turned sharp to the right. By this time they were approaching Soho Square. "Come out of our way a bit, haven’t we?" Tomlin replied solemnly. "I wanted you to have a squint at those chairs first. Here we are." They paused opposite a mean house, entered an open door, and ascended a rickety, evil-smelling staircase. Tomlin pulled a key from his pocket, unlocked a door upon the second floor, and ushered Quinney into a biggish room filled with odds and ends of furniture. Quinney had been here before. It was one of Tomlin’s many small warehouses. The centre of the floor had been cleared, and in this cleared space stood four chairs. "Thunder and Mars!" "Thought you’d be surprised," muttered Tomlin, pulling up a dirty blind. The four chairs were carved like the chairs from Pevensey Court. They had horsehair seats much dilapidated, and the mahogany had been mercilessly treated, but to a connoisseur such as Quinney there was not a scintilla of doubt that they were carved by the same master hand which had designed and executed the set in Lark and Bundy’s window. "Where are the other four?" asked Quinney, on his knees before the chairs, running his hands over them, caressing them with tender touches. "Where? Oh, where?" said Tomlin. Then he spoke curtly and to the point: "Them four came out of Ireland. I paid fifty pound for ’em." "You do have the devil’s own luck, Tom." "Not so fast. I can’t find out anything about them. If I tried to sell ’em, as they are, Lark would see to it that fellows like Pressland crabbed ’em, as he did that commode o’ yours." Quinney gnashed his teeth. The history of that unhappy transaction was now known to him. He knew where the commode was, and what price had been paid for it. "With luck," continued Tomlin thoughtfully, "I might sell these chairs for fifty apiece. One is an armchair. Your covers would go nicely on ’em, eh?" "By Gum, the very thing." "And you’ve eight covers?" "Eight of the best." Tomlin stared hard at the little man. "Let’s have a look at the covers," he said slowly. They returned to Soho Square. Somewhat to Quinney’s astonishment he found Posy in James’s room. Her presence, however, was easily and glibly explained. James, obeying orders, had asked his employer’s daughter for some cleaning fluid. She had just brought him some. That was all. Quinney frowned, and signified with a gesture that Posy could "scoot." She did so, after exchanging greetings with Tomlin. "Dev’lish fine gal!" said Tomlin. "Glad to see she’s not above helpin’ in the business." "Don’t want her help!" growled Quinney. He turned savagely to James: "Didn’t I tell you not to show them covers to nobody?" "Sorry," replied James carelessly. "I supposed Miss Quinney would be considered an exception." He added, with mild derision, "She took no interest in the covers at all." "She saw them?" snapped Quinney. "Possibly," said James.