“The sugar-bowl?” he repeated, reaching for it. “Yes; oh, it’s silver all right,” and he polished it with a cloth. “See, it’s Georgian, but not for sale, I think. A fine piece—the young fellow might be tempted—I fancy he’s hard up,” and he handed it over, and Leonard Harling assumed his pince-nez. First he examined the marks—all right; then the crest. His hand shook a little when he recognised his own!—the torch and crown—and, like a flash, he seemed to remember this very sugar-bowl in the blue-veined hand of his grandmother.
“Who does it belong to?” he enquired.
“We cannot give names of our clients,” was the pompous reply.
“Not if it is in their interest—and—er—yours?” and Harling touched his pocket with significance. The salesman hesitated, relaxed his attitude and said:
“I’ll go and look up the book,” and he left them.
“Lizzie, I’ve a clue—this sugar-bowl you spotted! It’s got the family crest, and I believe it came from Humphrey. We’ll find out who pawned it—of course it’s an off-chance.”
“Yes, sir, I’ve the address,” said the assistant, returning: “‘P. Harling, 5, Russell Buildings, W.C.’—workmen’s flats. The article is pawned for one pound—it’s worth twenty. I see you know something of its quality.”
“Do you think you could manage for me to interview the owner. What is he like?”
“Oh, a young chap—gentlemanly—shabby. I only saw him after dark.”
“Can you, as a great favour, ask him to meet me here, or elsewhere?”