Abraham Letchowiski stood in the doorway of his small but brilliantly lit shop in one of the broad thoroughfares leading out of the Mile End Road, and beamed upon the Saturday night passers-by. He was, in his way, a picturesque looking object—patriarchal, almost biblical. He wore a long, rusty-black frock-coat, from which the buttons had long since departed, but which hung in straight lines about his tall, spare form. His dishevelled grey beard reached to the third button of his waistcoat. His horn-rimmed spectacles were pushed back to his forehead. Every now and then he harangued a likely-looking couple in mild and persuasive accents.
"Young shentleman, shtop von minute. Bring the beautiful young lady inside. I am selling sheap to-night, very very sheap. Young shentleman, you want a real diamond ring? I have the sheapest diamond rings in the vorld. I am Letchowiski, the gem merchant. You bring your moniesh to me. You get better value than anyvere in Vitechapel or the Vest End. Come inside, my tears."
A few of the passers-by answered him with chaff. One or two of the more forward of the girls threw him a kiss. Old father Letchowiski on a Saturday night was a familiar feature of the dingy marketing thoroughfare, but to-night more than one fancied that his heart was not in it. Presently, during a lull, he turned back into his shop, fingered lovingly a few of his wares, gewgaws of the most glaring description, and then turned to a small boy who stood behind the counter, a remarkable, cross-eyed youth, standing little higher than the counter, with black hair, a narrow face and sallow complexion.
"David, you call me the moment anyone puts their head in the shop. You hear? Call loudly."
"All right, granfer," the boy replied. "Can I go to the door and shout at them?"
"If you like," the old gentleman agreed tolerantly. "If you sell anything, perhaps I give you a little commission."
A beatific smile spread over the boy's face as he scrambled under the counter. Abraham Letchowiski opened a door which led into the rear of the premises, drew aside the curtain and peered for a moment back again through the shop into the street, over the head of the small boy, who with outstretched hands was making the night hideous with cries of fervid invitation. Then he dropped the curtain, descended two stairs, passed through a small, ill-ventilated sitting-room, the table of which was laid for a homely meal, on through another door, and along a dark passage. Through a further door at the end came a chink of brilliant light. He knocked twice softly and stepped inside. A man with a tired, livid face, his clothing covered by a long smock, heavy spectacles disfiguring his features, was stooping over a tiny lathe. The soft whir of a dynamo from a corner purred insistently. A brilliant droplight from the ceiling was lowered almost over the bench. Something glittered in the white hands of the workman as he turned around with a little start.
"Letchowiski!" he muttered. "Well?"
"Finish for to-night," Letchowiski whispered imploringly. "All the evening I have been uneasy. Just now I stand in my doorway and I shout my wares and my eyes search. There is a man in the clothing shop opposite. He pretends to deal with Hyam for a suit, but I see him often with his eyes turned this way. He is like the man of whom you have told me—the man Brodie."
The artificer did not hesitate for a moment. He looked in the mirror opposite to him and straightened a little more naturally the coal black hair which only an artist could have arranged. With his foot he stopped the dynamo. From a cupboard opposite to him he brought out a dozen cheap watches and spread them around. One of these he proceeded with neat fingers to take to pieces.