"You've only got five left out of the dozen," said the detective; "then you've sold seven?"
"I have."
"Can you remember who you sold 'em to?"
The pawnbroker scratched his head thoughtfully.
"I think I must have sold 'em all to the men at the works," he said. "They take their wages once a fortnight; and there's some of 'em drop in here every other Saturday night to buy something or other, or to take something out of pledge. I know I sold four or five that way."
"But can you remember selling one of them to anybody else?" asked the detective. "I'm not asking out of curiosity; and I don't mind standing something handsome by-and-by, if you can give me the information I want. Think it over, now, and take your time. You couldn't have sold 'em all seven to the men from the works."
"No; I didn't," answered the pawnbroker after a pause. "I remember now, I sold one of them—a fancy sprig on a purple ground—to Josephs the baker, in the next street; and I sold another—a yellow stripe on a brown ground—to the head-gardener at Mellish Park."
Mr. Joseph Grimstone's face flushed hot and red. His day's work had not been wasted. He was bringing the buttons by Crosby of Birmingham very near to where he wanted to bring them.
"You can tell me the gardener's name, I suppose?" he said to the pawnbroker.
"Yes; his name's Dawson. He belongs to Doncaster, and he and I were boys together. I should not have remembered selling him the waistcoat, perhaps, for it's nigh upon a year and a half ago; only he stopped and had a chat with me and my missis the night he bought it."