living as an artist's model. As a matter of fact he did. The bowl of
beaten brass that he produced for the reception of his purchases was
distinctly the most astonishing variation on the string bag or marketing
basket of suburban civilisation that his fellow-shoppers had ever seen.
He threw a gold piece, apparently of some exotic currency, across the
counter, and did not seem disposed to wait for any change that might be
forthcoming.

"The wine and figs were not paid for yesterday," he said; "keep what is
over of the money for our future purchases."

"A very strange-looking boy?" said Mrs. Greyes interrogatively to the
grocer as soon as his customer had left.

"A foreigner, I believe," said Mr. Scarrick, with a shortness that was
entirely out of keeping with his usually communicative manner.

"I wish for a pound and a half of the best coffee you have," said an
authoritative voice a moment or two later. The speaker was a tall,
authoritative-looking man of rather outlandish aspect, remarkable among
other things for a full black beard, worn in a style more in vogue in
early Assyria than in a London suburb of the present day.

"Has a dark-faced boy been here buying pomegranates?" he asked suddenly,
as the coffee was being weighed out to him.

The two ladies almost jumped on hearing the grocer reply with an
unblushing negative.

"We have a few pomegranates in stock," he continued, "but there has been