At last, putting two necklets and two
rings back into the jewel-case, she placed the rest in a little green
box, and taking that and the envelope, went out. She called a hansom,
drove to a post-office, and sent a telegram:
PENDYCE, STOICS' CLUB.
"Be at studio six to seven.--H."
From the post-office she drove to her jeweller's, and many a man who saw
her pass with the flush on her cheeks and the smouldering look in her
eyes, as though a fire were alight within her, turned in his tracks and
bitterly regretted that he knew not who she was, or whither going. The
jeweller took the jewels from the green box, weighed them one by one,
and slowly examined each through his lens. He was a little man with a
yellow wrinkled face and a weak little beard, and having fixed in his
mind the sum that he would give, he looked at his client prepared to
mention less. She was sitting with her elbows on the counter, her chin
resting in her hands, and her eyes were fixed on him. He decided somehow
to mention the exact sum.
"Is that all?"
"Yes, madam; that is the utmost."
"Very well, but I must have it now in cash!"
The jeweller's eyes flickered.
"It's a large sum," he said--"most unusual. I haven't got such a sum in
the place."
"Then please send out and get it, or I must go elsewhere.
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