"No." The man grew white and leaned against the counter, breathing heavily. "Where did you get the brooch?" he asked, trying to keep himself calm, but with a visible effort.
"I got it from my mother, and she received it from my father—"
"Beecot—Beecot," said the old man, fingering his lips, much agitated. "I know no one of that name save yourself, and you are not a spy—a scoundrel—a—a—" He caught the eyes of Paul fixed on him in amazement, and suddenly changed his tone. "Excuse me, but the brooch reminds me of trouble."
"You have seen it before?"
"Yes—that is no—don't ask me." He clutched at his throat as though he felt choked. "I can't talk of it. I daren't. How did your father get it?"
More and more astonished, Paul explained. Aaron listened with his one eye very bright, and made uneasy motions with his lean hands as the young man spoke. When Beecot ended he bit his nails. "Yes, yes," he murmured to himself, "it would be asked for back. But it sha'n't go back. I want it. Sell it to me, Mr. Beecot."
"I'm sorry I can't," replied Paul, good-naturedly. "But my mother wired that it was to be returned. My father has discovered that she sent it to me and is not pleased."
"Did you tell your mother you had shown it to me?"
"No. There was no need."
"God bless you!" breathed the man, pulling out a crimson handkerchief. "Of course there was no need," he tittered nervously. "It doesn't do to talk of pawning things—not respectable, eh—eh." He wiped his face and passed his tongue over his white lips. "Well, you won't sell it to me?"