"God bless you!" breathed the man, pulling out a crimson handkerchief. "Of course there was no need," he tittered nervously. "It doesn't do to talk of pawning things--not respectable, eh--eh." He wiped his face and passed his tongue over his white lips. "Well, you won't sell it to me?" "I can't. But I'll ask my mother if she will." "No, no! Don't do that--say nothing--say nothing. I don't want the brooch. I never saw the brooch--what brooch--pooh--pooh, don't talk to me of the brooch," and so he babbled on. "Mr. Norman," said Beecot, gravely, "what is the story connected with the brooch?" Aaron flung up his hands and backed towards the counter. "No, no. Don't ask me. What do you mean? I know no story of a brooch--what brooch--I never saw one--I never--ah"--he broke off in relief as two pale-faced, spectacled girls entered the shop--"customers. What is it, ladies? How can I serve you?" And he bustled away behind the counter, giving all his attention to the customers, yet not without a sidelong look in the direction of the perplexed Paul. That young gentleman, finding it impossible to get further speech with Aaron, and suspecting from his manner that all was not right, left the shop. He determined to take the brooch to Wargrove himself, and to ask his mother about it. Then he could learn why she wanted it back--if not from her, then from his father. This knowledge might explain the mystery. "Did you sell the brooch?" asked Grexon as they walked up Gwynne Street. "No. I have to send it back to my mother, and--" "Hold on!" cried Hay, stumbling. "Orange-peel--ah--" His stumble knocked Paul into the middle of the road. A motor car was coming down swiftly. Before Hay could realize what had taken place Paul was under the wheels of the machine. CHAPTER V TROUBLE "Oh, Debby," wept Sylvia, "he will die--he will die." "Not he, my precious pet," said the handmaiden, fondling the girl's soft hands within her own hard ones. "Them sort of young men have as many lives as tom cats. Bless you, my flower, he'll be up and ready, waiting at the altar, before the fashions change--and that's quick enough," added Deborah, rubbing her snub nose. "For they're allays an-altering and a-turning and a-changing of 'em."