deal of money out of Sally; she never brought him anything which was not
valuable and worth buying. Sometimes her treasures were presents from
admirers, sometimes they were the proceeds of highway robberies. The
latter yielded the most profit. The would-be sellers dared not haggle.
They were only too anxious to get rid of their ill-gotten gains.

The old man bowed Sally Salisbury into his inner room. He knew that the
business which had brought her to him was one that meant privacy. He
ceremoniously placed a chair for her and awaited her pleasure.

The lady was in no hurry. She caught sight of the gold brooch lying on
the table, took it up and examined it. On the back was graven "A.D. to
Lavinia." Sally's dark arched eyebrows contracted.

"Lavinia," she thought. "So it _was_ that little squalling cat. I hate
her. She's tumbled on her feet--like all cats. But for the letters I'd
say she'd flung herself at the head of _my_ man."

Sally was thinking of her encounter with Lavinia outside the Maiden Head
tavern. Lancelot Vane was then sitting in the bow window of the
coffee-room. True he was in a drunken sleep but this would make no
difference. Lavinia, Sally decided, was in a fair way to earn her
living, much as Sally herself did--the toy of the bloods of fashion one
day, the companions of highwaymen and bullies the next.

"Where did the impertinent young madam get her fine clothes and her
quality air if not?" Sally asked herself, and the question was a
reasonable one.

"Have you brought me ought that I care to look at, Mistress Salisbury?"