"What's your hurry? Come back!" he called to her. "Of course I can't take risks. There's cases when the goods ain't come by honest. But you look all right. Anyway 't ain't no trouble to look over the stuff. Let me see what you've got. There ain't another place in New York where they pay such good prices." She returned, hesitatingly, and handed to him a small worn case that had once been covered with red morocco. He opened it, taking out the ring and moving nearer the window, where he examined it carefully. "Yes. It's a diamond all right," he admitted, paternally, as if he thus conferred a great favor upon her. "But of course it's very old and the mounting was done years and years ago, and it's worn awful thin. Maybe a couple of dollars worth of gold, that's all." "But the stone?" she asked, anxiously. "One moment, just a moment, I'm looking at it," he replied, screwing a magnifying glass in the socket of one of his eyes. "Diamonds are awful hard to sell, nowadays--very hard, but let me look some more." He was turning the thing around, estimating the depth of the gem and studying the method of its cutting. "Very old," he told her again. "They don't cut diamonds that way now." "It belonged to my mother," she said. "Of course, of course," he quavered, repellently, so that her cheeks began to feel hot again. She was deeply hurt by his tone of suspicion. The sacrifice was bad enough--the implication was unbearable. "I don't think you want it," she said, coldly. "Give it back to me. I can perhaps do better at a regular pawnshop." But he detained her again, becoming smooth and oily. He first offered her fifty dollars. She truthfully asserted that her father had paid a couple of hundred for it. After long bargaining and haggling he finally agreed to give her eighty-five dollars and, worn out, the girl accepted. She was going out of the shop, with the money, when she stopped again. "It seems to me that I used to see pistols, or were they revolvers, in your show window," she said. He lifted up his hands in alarm. "Pistols! revolvers! Don't you know there's the Sullivan law now? We ain't allowed to sell 'em--and you ain't allowed to buy 'em without a license--a license from the police." "Oh! That's a pity," said Madge. "I'm going away from New York and I thought it might be a good idea to have one with me." The old man looked keenly at her again, scratching one ear with unkempt nails. Finally he drew her back of a counter, placing a finger to his lips. "I'm taking chances," he whispered. "I'm doing it to oblige. If ye tell any one you got it here I'll say you never did. My word's as good as yours." "I tell you I'm going away," she repeated. "I--I'm never coming to this city again--never as long as I live. But I want to take it with me."