The old Jew turned to a great desk that filled up one end of the dark room, unlocked a variety of doors and drawers, turned over piles of dirty notes, and at last selected a scrap of paper from among them.
"This is his writin'," he said, in a guttural whisper. "I'm taking great trouble, great trouble," he whined; "de good gentleman ought to remember that."
"You shall be well rewarded," said Mr. Mellen impatiently, snatching the paper from his hand.
He glanced at the writing—the paleness of his face grew death-like—he stood like a statue, with his eyes rivetted upon the page, while the two men regarded him in silence.
The writing was peculiar. It had an individuality so marked and so increased by practice, that any person who had seen a page of the delicate characters, could have sworn to the writing among whole volumes.
Mr. Mellen looked up—the astonishment in his companions' faces brought him to himself.
"That is what I wanted," he said.
"I hopes it ish all right," urged the Jew. "The good gentleman is satisfied!"
"Perfectly, perfectly! Now I want the bracelet! How much did you receive on it?"
The old Jew's face changed at once.