For a considerable time Shafto strolled about with his hands in his pockets, so far seeing nothing to tempt him. Meanwhile his companion eagerly examined books and bargained over a tattered old volume. Shafto noted with surprise the number of well-dressed visitors poking among the stalls, in search of treasure trove. There were a parson with a greedy-looking leather bag, an officer in uniform, and various smart ladies, hunting in couples. Among a quantity of jugs and basins, soup tureens and coarse crockery, Shafto’s idle glance fell upon a frightful Chinese figure, the squat presentation of a man, about eight inches in height. “I say, did you ever see such a horror?” he asked, pointing it out to his companion; “a curio for ugliness, and just the sort of monster Mrs. Malone would love. I’ll try if I can get hold of it. What’s the price of the China demon?” he inquired of a wizened old woman, who wore a bashed black bonnet and a pair of blue sand shoes. “Five shillin’,” she replied promptly. “Five shillings!” he exclaimed. “You’re joking.” “No time for jokes here,” she retorted, “it’s a good piece” (picking up the figure), “and come out of a grand house. If it were in Bond Street, they’d ask you five pounds. I showed it to a man, who said it was good, although there was no mark, and it might be worth a lot; but I’ve no time to be raking up things—my trade is a quick sale—and cash.” “I’ll give you half a crown,” said the customer. “Two half-crowns, and it’s yours, and a bargain; you won’t know the old fellow when he’s had a wash!” “What do you say, Hutton?” inquired Douglas, turning to his friend. “Well, I think you might risk five shillings; you don’t see such ugliness every day, and I should not wonder if it was a good piece. I’ve never come across one like it.” “All right then, I’ll take the horror.” And in another moment the bargain was effected. Douglas tendered two half-crowns, which the old woman carefully examined and pocketed, then she wrapped up the figure in a piece of crumpled newspaper, and presently he and his friend departed, each bearing his booty. “There is little to find now,” said Hutton, as they passed through the gates; “the Market has become one of the weekly fashionable gatherings of the town, and is dredged by dealers from all over England, who look on it as a sort of lucky-bag—but the bag is nearly empty.” Mrs. Malone was enchanted with the monster—she had a secret weakness for cheap little gifts—that is to say, from her own particular friends. More than once Douglas had brought her some trifling tribute, but his mother had felt deeply affronted by such uncalled for generosity to a stranger; and when he ventured to exhibit the Chinese atrocity, she exclaimed with great bitterness: “Oh, for Mrs. Malone, Of course! It’s rather strange that you never think of bringing me a present.” “But, mother, you wouldn’t care for this sort of thing,” he protested, “and it was awfully cheap.”