This was a man after the priest's own heart. He took another deep breath and dived into the strong-room. He returned under the escort of ten armed men, each of them chained by the wrist to an iron box, which he unlocked with difficulty. Inside the iron box was a thing which Jackson a few months ago would have called a pipe. He knew better now. In awful silence the priest lifted it from its satin bed. "This," he whispered, "was once smoked by Brownhill himself."
Jackson put out a hand to take it. The priest hesitated, then laid it gently on his customer's palm.
And Jackson dropped it.
Jackson has never been heard of since.
THE FAIRIES HAVE NEVER A PENNY TO SPEND.
The fairies have never a penny to spend,
They haven't a thing put by,
But theirs is the dower of bird and of flower,
And theirs are the earth and the sky.