All this was fair and quite business-like, and Mr Ward hastened to display his most tempting treasures to his customer, who, however, speedily rejected the best of them on account of their high price. At length he chose a lady’s small gold lever, ornamented with jewels on the back, and a set of gold ear-rings, with brooch and necklet to match. The price of the whole came to a trifle under £60, and the buyer expressed much satisfaction at the reasonable charges and the beauty of the articles.
“You will put them up carefully and send them home, and, if I keep them, you can send in your bill at the usual time,” said the agreeable customer; and so the pleasant transaction concluded, the jeweller showed him out, the cab was entered, and Mr Whitmore not only disappeared from the jeweller’s sight, but also, as it seemed, from every one else’s. As he left the shop, the languid gentleman had looked at his watch, and the jeweller had just time to notice that it was an expensive gold one, with a very peculiar dial of gold figures on a black ground. Some reference had also been made to diamonds during the selection of the presents, and Mr Whitmore had been obliging enough to remove one of the rings from his white fingers and place it in the hands of the jeweller, when that gentleman read inside the initials “S. W.”
These two circumstances were afterwards to add to the intricacy of the case when it came into our hands. From the moment when the pretty-faced gentleman was shown out by Mr Ward, he could not have vanished more effectually if he had driven out of the world. Half an hour after, a young apprentice lad in Mr Ward’s employ took the small parcel given him by his master out to the stately residence of the Whitmores at the West End, and, according to his statement afterwards, duly delivered the same. There was no name-plate upon the door, but there was a big brass number which corresponded with that on the card left by the pleasant customer. The messenger, who was no stupid boy, but a lad of seventeen, declared most positively that he looked for the number in that fine crescent, rang the bell, and was answered by a dignified footman. He then asked if the house was that of the Whitmores, was answered with a stately affirmative, and then departed. None of the articles thus sent home were returned, and they were therefore entered in the books as sold. A month or two later the account was made up and sent to the buyer. There was no response for many weeks, but at length the answer did come, and in a manner altogether unexpected. A gentleman, young, but by no means good-looking, drove up to the shop door one forenoon and entered the shop. Mr Ward had never seen him before, but the card which he placed before the jeweller was familiar enough to cause him to start strangely. It bore the name, “Samuel Whitmore,” with the address at the lower corner—it was, indeed, the facsimile of that which had been produced by Mr Ward’s languid but agreeable customer months before.
“I wish to see Mr Ward,” said the new comer, evidently as ignorant of the jeweller’s appearance as that gentleman was of his.
“I am Mr Ward, sir,” was the reply; and then the stranger brought out some papers, from which he selected Mr Ward’s account for the articles of jewellery, which he placed before the astonished tradesman, with the words—
“I am Mr Whitmore, and this account has been sent to me by mistake. It would have been checked sooner, but it happened that I was away in Paris when it was sent, and as I was expected home they did not trouble to forward the paper.”
The jeweller stared at his visitor. He was a young man, and wore Dundreary whiskers, and had on his fingers just such rings as Mr Ward remembered seeing on the hand of his customer, but there was not the slightest resemblance of features.
“You Mr Samuel Whitmore?” he vacantly echoed, picking up the card of the gentleman, and mentally asking himself whether he was dreaming or awake.
“Mr Samuel Whitmore,” calmly answered the gentleman.
“Son of Mr Whitmore of Castleton Lee?”