About a week later John Baxter closed and locked his office desk, hurried down to the savings bank, and drew five hundred dollars.  Most of it was to go into steamer tickets forthwith, a little balance was to be changed into Italian money.  As he meditated a route downtown, he recalled the only adieu still left unpaid.  To be sure the cross had remained for three years at Novelli’s but it might go forever any day, and with it a great resource for a weary moralist.  Farewells were plainly in order, and with no other thought he walked back to the shop and greeted Novelli, who without waiting to be asked produced the crimson parcel that contained the precious relic.  As John looked it over from panel to panel, as if to stamp every composition upon his memory, Novelli watched him, reflected, hesitated, smiled benevolently, and spoke.  “Mr. Baxter, I am in great need of money and must sacrifice the cross.  I want you to take it.  Vogelstein has offered me four hundred and fifty dollars for it but he shall not have it if I can sell it to anybody who deserves it better and will value it.  It is yours at that price.  What do you say?”

John tried for words that failed to come.

“It’s a bargain, Mr. Baxter,” pursued Novelli, “but of course if you don’t happen to have the money there’s nothing more to say.”

“But I have it right here,” retorted John in perplexity, “only it’s for quite a different purpose.”

“You know your own business, of course, and I don’t urge you, but if you have the money and don’t take it, you make a great mistake.  You know that well enough, and then remember how Mrs. Baxter admired it the other day.”

“Yes-s,” faltered John dubiously.

“Then why do you hesitate?  You know what it is, and what it is worth, as an investment, I mean.  By taking your time and selling it right you can surely double your money.”

“But”—­

“No, there it is.  I am honestly doing you a favour,” and Novelli thrust the swathed cross into the hands of his fairly hypnotised customer.  John’s left hand clutched it instinctively, while with the frightened fingers of his right he counted off nine fifty dollar bills.

“Thank you, Mr. Baxter, neither you nor your wife will ever regret it.  Nobody in America has anything finer, and that you know.”

These words pounded terribly in John’s brain as he found his way home, stumbled up stairs, and boggled with the latchkey.  All the way down, unheeded passersby had wondered at the crimson burden (he had not waited for a parcel to be made) hugged closely to the shabby black cutaway.  The danger signal smote Miriam in the eyes as she rose to be kissed.  Standing away from her, he placed the shrouded cross on the table and tried for the confession that would not say itself.

“Why, it’s our cross,” she cried wonderingly.  “Mr. Novelli has lent it to us for a last look before we go where the lovely thing was made.  But, John, what’s the matter?  How you do look!  Has something awful happened?”