“Quite,” breathed Annis softly.
“I’m not,” said Wilson, in tones full of meaning.
Miss Gething smiled, and leaning against the side surveyed, with some interest, the dark water and the sleeping town. She did not move when Wilson came and stood by her, and when he took her hand, made no protest.
“I’m not satisfied—yet,” said Wilson, raising her hand to his lips.
His eye caught the two lanterns which were burning somewhat garishly, and crossing over, he took them down and blew them out. He turned suddenly at the sound of a smothered laugh, a moment too late. Annis Gething had gone below.
THE BROWN MAN’S SERVANT
CHAPTER I
The shop of Solomon Hyams stood in a small thoroughfare branching off the Commercial Road. In its windows unredeemed pledges of all kinds, from old-time watches to seamen’s boots, appealed to all tastes and requirements. Bundles of cigars, candidly described as “wonderful,” were marked at absurdly low figures, while silver watches endeavored to excuse the clumsiness of their make by describing themselves as “strong workmen’s.” The side entrance, up a narrow alley, was surmounted by the usual three brass balls, and here Mr. Hyams’ clients were wont to call. They entered as optimists, smiled confidently upon Mr. Hyams, argued, protested shrilly, and left the establishment pessimists of a most pronounced and virulent type.
None of these things, however, disturbed the pawnbroker. The drunken client who endeavored to bail out his Sunday clothes with a tram ticket was accommodated with a chair, while the assistant went to hunt up his friends and contract for a speedy removal; the old woman who, with a view of obtaining a higher advance than usual, poured a tale of grievous woe into the hardened ears of Mr. Hyams, found herself left to the same invaluable assistant, and, realizing her failure, would at once become cheerful and take what was offered. Mr. Hyams’ methods of business were quiet and unostentatious, and rumor had it that he might retire at any time and live in luxury.
It was a cold, cheerless afternoon in November as Mr. Hyams, who had occasional hazy ideas of hygiene, stood at his door taking the air. It was an atmosphere laden with soot and redolent of many blended odors, but after the fusty smell of the shop it was almost health-giving. In the large public-house opposite, with its dirty windows and faded signboards, the gas was already being lit, which should change it from its daylight dreariness to a resort of light and life.