Gilbert went into the room at the end of the shop--a small dark parlour,
more crowded with a heterogeneous collection of plate, pictures, and
bric-a-brac of all kinds than the shop itself. Sultry as the July evening
was, there was a fire burning in the pinched rusty grate, and over this
fire the owner of the room bent affectionately, with his slippered feet
on the fender, and his bony hands clasping his bony knees.

He was an old man, with long yellowish-white hair streaming from beneath
a velvet skull-cap, and bright black eyes deep set in a pale thin face.
His nose was a sharp aquiline, and gave something of a bird-like aspect
to a countenance that must once have been very handsome. He was wrapped
in a long dressing-gown of some thick grey woollen stuff.

The sallow-faced young man lingered by the half-glass door between the
parlour and the shop, as if he would fain have remained a witness to the
interview about to take place between his master and the stranger; but
the old man looked round at him sharply, and said,--

"That will do, Tulliver; you can go back to the shop. If Abrahams brings
that little lot again to-night, tell him I'll give five-and-nine an
ounce, not a fraction more."

Mr. Tulliver retired, leaving the door ajar ever so little; but the
penetrating black eyes of the master were quick to perceive this
manoeuvre.

"Will you be so good as to shut that door, sir, quite securely?" he said
to Gilbert. "That young man is very inquisitive; I'm afraid I've kept him
too long. People talk of old servants; but half the robberies in the