“And are you aware, madam; that this—­this piece in my hand, is a most glorious specimen of old ‘Kang He’?  An altar vessel, too; a most perfect, complete, and unique specimen of Chinese enamelled porcelain, dating from the Kang dynasty?  By George!” handling it and turning it about with tender loving care, “what an astonishing find!  I’ve never come across such a piece, and I’ve seen a good few in my time.  How did you get hold of it?”

“Mr. Shafto gave it to me,” replied Mrs. Malone, in her stiffest manner.

“And I picked it off a stall in the Caledonian Market,” supplemented Shafto.

“What luck; what incredible luck!” exclaimed the dealer, nodding his big head; “well, Mrs. Malone, will you please inform your other customer that I will pay you three hundred pounds down for this piece—­that rather snuffs him out, eh?  I’ll give you a cheque in the morning,” and carrying the monster as reverently as if it were some holy relic, Manasseh Levison, expert and connoisseur, marched out of the room in triumph.

CHAPTER VIII

BOUND FOR BURMA

It was some minutes before Mrs. Malone recovered her breath and composure, the invasion and purchase had been so startlingly abrupt.  At last she found her tongue and her wits, and after a lengthy and animated discussion, it was ultimately decided that she and Douglas would each take a hundred pounds (privately she determined to invest her share for his benefit) and hand the remaining hundred to the old woman in the black bonnet at her stand in the Caledonian Market.

The journey to Rangoon was now likely to be accomplished, thanks to the Chinese Monster.  When Douglas picked it off the cobble stones, from among coarse common crockery, how little he dreamed what a factor this figure would prove in his future—­it had been the means of shaping his destiny!

On Friday morning he sent in a formal acceptance of Mr. Martin’s offer and, having obtained leave, hurried away to the Caledonian Market, in search of the old rag and bottle female.  It was half-past twelve o’clock when he arrived, he was late, and her pitch was empty.  Had she departed already?  On inquiry he was informed that old Mother Doake had departed for good—­was, in fact, dead!

“Yes, she were run over by a motor-trolley ten days ago,” announced the woman in the next stall; “she was terribly old and blind and a real wicked miser.  There was no one belonging to her.  Her clothes were just lined with bank-notes, and there was a whole lot of papers and bonds in her mattress, and a lovely silver tea-set up the chimney.  She grudged herself a penn-’orth o’ milk, or a drop o’ brandy, and she worth thousands o’ pounds!  Being no heirs, the Crown takes the lot!  Thank you, sir,” accepting a tip, “I suppose I could not tempt you with a splendid fur-lined overcoat?  Cost a hundred—­but you can have it for six.  It belonged to a lord—­I got it off his man.  Well, maybe it’s a bit warmish, but it’s dirt cheap and would come in next winter.”