Beecot, to his surprise, saw his own name. "Who can be wiring to me?" he said, taking the telegram. "Wait, boy, there may be an answer," and he skimmed through the lines. "Don't sell the brooch, but send it back," read Paul, puzzled, "your father angry.—Mother." He paused, and looked at the boy. "Got a form?" he asked.
The lad produced one and a stumpy pencil. With these materials Beecot wrote a reply saying the brooch would be returned on the morrow. When the boy went away with the answer Paul felt in his breast pocket and took out the old blue case. "I've a good mind to send it now," he said aloud.
"What's that?" asked Hay, who was yawning at the door. "No bad news I hope?"
"It's about that brooch again."
Hay laughed. "Upon my word it seems to you what the Monster was to Frankenstein," said he. "Send it back—to Mrs. Beecot, I presume—and have done with it." He cast a glance at the case. "I see you have it with you," he ended, lightly.
"Yes," said Paul, and replacing the case in his pocket went down the street with his friend. Then he determined to ask his opinion, and related the gist of Mrs. Beecot's letter. "And now the mater wires to have it back," he said. "I expect my father has found out that she has sent it to me, and is furious."
"Well, send it back and have done with it," said Hay, impatiently; "you are in danger of becoming a bore with that brooch, Beecot. I'll lend you money if you like."
"No, thanks, I have three pounds honestly earned. However, we'll speak no more of the brooch. I'll send it back this very day. Tell me," he linked his arm within that of his friend, "tell me of that man."
"That man—of the working creature," said Hay, absently. "Pooh, the man was no more a working man than I am."