III
Thursday morning, the seventeenth of June—for we have to go back to that day. High Street was basking in the rays of the hot sun; foot passengers, meeting each other on the scorching pavement, lifted their hats for a moment’s air, and said what a day it was going to be. The clean, bright shops faced each other from opposite sides. None of their wares looked more attractive than those displayed in the two windows of the silversmith.
Mr. Stephenson—a trustworthy, civil little man of thirty, with a plain face and sandy hair that stood upright on his head—was keeping guard over his master’s goods, some of them being very valuable. The shop was a long one and he was far down in it, behind the left-hand counter. Before him lay a tray of small articles of jewellery, some of which he was touching up with a piece of wash-leather. He did not expect to be busy that day; the previous day, Wednesday, had been a busy one, so many country people came into town for the market.
While thus engaged a gentleman, young, good looking, and well dressed, entered the shop. Mr. Stephenson went forward.
“I have called for Mrs. Todhetley’s brooch,” said the stranger. “Is it ready?”
“What brooch, sir?” returned Stephenson.
“The one she left with you to be mended.”
The shopman felt a little puzzled. He said he did not remember that any brooch had been left by that lady to be mended.
“Mrs. Todhetley of Crabb Cot,” explained the applicant, perhaps thinking the man was at fault that way.