“I passed by your window a short time ago, and saw your card, stating that advances were made on choice articles. Would this be of any use to you?” He took the dressing-case from under his coat and handed it to Kling. “I am not ready to sell it—not to sell it outright; you might, perhaps, make me a small loan which would answer my purpose. Its value is about sixty pounds—some three hundred dollars of your money. At least, it cost that. It is one of Vickery's, of London, and it is almost new.”
Kling glanced sharply at the intruder. “I don't keep open often so late like dis. You must come in de morning.”
“Cannot you look at it now?”
Something in the stranger's manner appealed to the dealer. He lowered his chin, adjusted his spectacles, and peered over their round silver rims—a way with him when he was making up his mind.
“Vell, I don't mind. Let me see,” and opening the case he took out the silver-topped bottles, placing them in a row on the counter behind which he stood. “Yes, dot's a good vun,” he continued with a grunt of approval. “Yes—dot's London, sure enough. Yes, I see Vickery's name—whose initials is on dese bottles? And de arms—de lion and de vings on him—dot come from somebody high up, ain't it? Vhere did you get 'em?”
“That is of no moment. What I want to know is, will you either pay me a fair price for it or loan me a fair sum on it?”
“Is it yours to sell?”
“It is.” There was no trace of resentment in his voice, nor did he show the slightest irritation at being asked so pointed a question.
“Vell, I don't keep a pawn-shop. I got no license, and if I had I vouldn't do it—too much trouble all de time. Poor vomans, dead-beats, suckers, sneak-thieves—all kind of peoples you don't vant, to come in the door vhen you have a pawn-shop.”
“Your sign said advances made.”