But the clerk now laughed, and replied,—
“No, no, my dear! that can’t be done. You shall have it back when you bring me the papers, or when you come accompanied by two merchants who are known to us.”
“But, sir”—
“That is so.”
And, finding that he had lost time enough, he went on,—
“One velvet cloak! Thirty francs. Whose is it?”
Henrietta was rushing out, and down the stairs, pursued, as it seemed to her, by the cries of the crowd. How that clerk had looked at her! Did he think she had stolen the ring? And what was to become of it? The police would inquire; they would trace her out; and she would be carried back to her father’s house, and given up to Sir Thorn. She could hardly keep up until she reached Water Street; and there fatigue, fright, and excitement made her forget her resolutions. She confessed her discomfiture to Mrs. Chevassat.
The honest woman tried to look as grave as an attorney whom a great client consults, who has unwittingly stirred up a wasps’ nest; and, when her tenant had finished, she said in a voice apparently half drowned in tears,—
“Poor little kitten, poor little innocent kitten!”
But, if she succeeded in giving to her face an expression of sincere sympathy, the greedy look in her eyes betrayed but too clearly her immense satisfaction at seeing Henrietta at last at her feet.