“Are you here, Abe?” shouted he.
“Comin’, comin’,” was the grunted answer. “Oh, so it is you, Mr. Benson. I hope you don’t want more money.”
“That’s just what I do want,” went on George Benson, “and I brought you the family jewels, though I had a darned hard job to get them. If I had never spied upon the old man I would not have known where they were. Lucky for me.”
“Yes, very lucky, my dear Mr. Benson,” answered the Jew, rubbing his white hands together, “for if you had not had them I should have given you no more.”
“Oh, don’t ring those old changes on me,” stuttered George, “for you know you would give me money if I demanded it.”
“No, sir, no more; no more.”
“Well, well, you’ve got the jewels, so don’t grumble; don’t grumble.”
He held out the box, and the old man took the jewel box greedily in his hands.
“Ah, they are beauties. I well remember them. I was the one who got them for your uncle, and he gave them to his wife Helen, and she was a beauty. Then his daughter got them in her turn, and I suppose you do not hear anything of the girl?”
“No, and I hope to heaven that she is dead. You see in that case I will get the money anyhow.”