Gilbert Fenton stared in amazement at this inscription.  It must needs be some relative of Marian’s he was about to see.

He opened the door, bewildered a little by this discovery, and a shrill bell gave notice of his entrance to those within.  A tall lanky young man, with a sallow face and sleek black hair, emerged quickly from some door in the obscure background, and asked in a sharp voice what the visitor pleased to want.

“I wish to see Mr. Nowell, the writer of a letter addressed to the post-office in Wigmore Street.”

The sallow-faced young man disappeared without a word, leaving Gilbert standing in the dimly lighted shop, where he saw more old silver crowded upon shelves behind glass doors, carved ebony cabinets looming out of the dusk, and here and there an old picture in a tarnished frame.  On the counter there was a glass case containing foreign bank-notes and gold, some curious old watches, and other trinkets, a baby’s coral, a battered silver cup, and a gold snuff-box.

While Gilbert waited thus he heard voices in a room at the back—­the shrill tones of the sallow young man and a feeble old voice raised querulously—­and then, after a delay which seemed long to his impatience, the young man reappeared and told him Mr. Nowell was ready to see him.

Gilbert went into the room at the end of the shop—­a small dark parlour, more crowded with a heterogeneous collection of plate, pictures, and bric-a-brac of all kinds than the shop itself.  Sultry as the July evening was, there was a fire burning in the pinched rusty grate, and over this fire the owner of the room bent affectionately, with his slippered feet on the fender, and his bony hands clasping his bony knees.

He was an old man, with long yellowish-white hair streaming from beneath a velvet skull-cap, and bright black eyes deep set in a pale thin face.  His nose was a sharp aquiline, and gave something of a bird-like aspect to a countenance that must once have been very handsome.  He was wrapped in a long dressing-gown of some thick grey woollen stuff.

The sallow-faced young man lingered by the half-glass door between the parlour and the shop, as if he would fain have remained a witness to the interview about to take place between his master and the stranger; but the old man looked round at him sharply, and said,—­

“That will do, Tulliver; you can go back to the shop.  If Abrahams brings that little lot again to-night, tell him I’ll give five-and-nine an ounce, not a fraction more.”

Mr. Tulliver retired, leaving the door ajar ever so little; but the penetrating black eyes of the master were quick to perceive this manoeuvre.

“Will you be so good as to shut that door, sir, quite securely?” he said to Gilbert.  “That young man is very inquisitive; I’m afraid I’ve kept him too long.  People talk of old servants; but half the robberies in the world are committed by old servants.  Be seated, if you please, sir.  You find this room rather close, perhaps.  Some people do; but I’m old and chilly, and I can’t live without a fire.”