Ten minutes later, the three found themselves at the door of one of the
biggest houses in Sussex Square; a moment more and they were being ushered
within by a footman who looked at them with stolid curiosity. Lauriston
gained a general impression of great wealth and luxury, soft carpets, fine
pictures, all the belongings of a very rich man's house--then he and his
companions were ushered into a large room, half study, half library,
wherein, at a massive, handsomely carved desk, littered with books and
papers, sat a middle-aged, keen-eyed man, who looked quietly up from his
writing-pad at his visitors.

"S'elp me!--one of ourselves!" whispered Melky Rubinstein at Lauriston's
elbow. "Twig him!"

Lauriston was quick enough of comprehension and observation to know what
Melky meant. Mr. Spencer Levendale was certainly a Jew. His dark hair and
beard, his large dark eyes, the olive tint of his complexion, the lines of
his nose and lips all betrayed his Semitic origin. He was evidently a man
of position and of character; a quiet-mannered, self-possessed man of
business, not given to wasting words. He glanced at the card which
Ayscough had sent in, and turned to him with one word.

"Well?"

Ayscough went straight to the point.

"I called, Mr. Levendale, about that advertisement of yours which appears
in all this morning's newspapers," he said. "I may as well tell you that
that book of yours was found yesterday afternoon, under strange
circumstances. Mr. Daniel Multenius, the jeweller and pawnbroker, of Praed