“I hope I won’t have long to wait, sir.”

“I will send at once.”

“It’s a pretty state of things when a lady has her own property kept from her,” said Mrs. Simpson, while the elder clerk was at the other end of the store, giving some instructions to a boy.

“I don’t in the least doubt your claim to the articles, Mrs. Simpson,” said the first salesman, obsequiously.  “Come, boy, you’d better own up that you have stolen the articles, and the lady will probably let you off this time.”

“Yes, I will let him off this time,” chimed in the lady.  “I don’t want to send him to prison.”

“If you can prove that I am a thief, I am willing to go,” said Grant, hotly.

By this time the elder salesman had come back.

“Is your name John Cavanaugh, my boy?” he asked.

“No, sir.”

“Did you ever see this lady before?”

“No, sir.”

The lady threw up her hands in feigned amazement.

“I wouldn’t have believed the boy would lie so!” she said.

“What is your name?”

“My name is Grant Thornton.  I live in Colebrook, and my father is Rev. John Thornton.”

“I know there is such a minister there.  To whom do these pearls belong?”

“To my mother.”

“A likely story that a country minister’s wife should own such valuable pearls,” said Mrs. Simpson, in a tone of sarcasm.

“How do you account for it?” asked the clerk.

“They were given my mother years since, by a rich lady who was a good friend of hers.  She has never had occasion to wear them.”

Mrs. Simpson smiled significantly.

“The boy has learned his story,” she said.  “I did not give you credit for such an imagination, John Cavanaugh.”

“My name is Grant Thornton, madam,” said our hero, gravely.

Five minutes later two men entered the store.  One was a policeman, the other the head of the firm.  When Grant’s eye fell on the policeman he felt nervous, but when he glanced at the gentleman his face lighted up with pleasure.

“Why, it’s Mr. Clifton,” he said.

“Grant Thornton,” said the jeweler, in surprise.  “Why, I thought—­”

“You will do me justice, Mr. Clifton,” said Grant, and thereupon he related the circumstances already known to the reader.

When Mrs. Simpson found that the boy whom she had selected as an easy victim was known to the proprietor of the place, she became nervous, and only thought of escape.

“It is possible that I am mistaken,” she said.  “Let me look at the pearls again.”

They were held up for her inspection.

“They are very like mine,” she said, after a brief glance; “but I see there is a slight difference.”

“How about the boy, madam?” asked the elder clerk.

“He is the very image of my errand boy; but if Mr. Clifton knows him, I must be mistaken.  I am sorry to have given you so much trouble.  I have an engagement to meet, and must go.”