The gas was glimmering faintly in the window of No. 5, and a good deal of
old silver, tarnished and blackened, huddled together behind the
wire-guarded glass, was dimly visible in the uncertain light. There was
some old jewellery too, and a little wooden bowl of sovereigns or gold
coins of some kind or other.
On a brass plate upon the door of this establishment there appeared the
name of Jacob Nowell, silversmith and money-changer.
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.
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