knows all, and der Mynheer is English author,
der Schaub must know von the Mynheer!"

George Dallas looked at him for a few
moments in great bewilderment, then turned to
Mr. Dieverbrug. " Upon my honour," he said,
" I should be delighted to carry out your wish
and have some talk with this old gentleman, but
I don't see my way to preventing the conversation
being all on his side. The fact is, I don't
understand one word he says!"

With the old sly smile, Mr. Dieverbrug said,
" My brother-in-law's talk is perhaps somewhat
idiomatic, and one is required to be used
to it. What he would convey is, that he,
acquainted as he is with English literature and
journalism, would like to know what position
you hold in it, what you have written, where
you have been engaged, and such-like. It is
no object of us to disguise to you that he
brings his experience to aid me in deciding
whether or not I consider myself justified in
making a dealing with you for these stones."

"Thanks! I comprehend perfectly, and, of
course, cannot object; though," added George,
with a smile, " I am afraid I have not as yet
made sufficient mark in English literature to
render me a classic, or even to have gained a
continental reputation for my name. Stay,
though. Mr. Schaub, if I understood him
rightly, represented himself as agent for one
London paper to which I have contributed
under my signature — the Mercury. You know
the Mercury, Mr. Schaub? I thought so, and
perhaps you have seen some articles there signed
Paul Ward?"

"M-ja! m-ja! Wass von die ' Strangers in
London,' von Paul Ward, am Nordjten,
Hollandischen, Deutschen sea-people, von zailors
would call zum visitiren ?"

"That's it, sir! Descriptions," continued
George, turning to Mr. Dieverbrug, "of the
foreign sea-going populations of London."

"M-ja, of Highway, of Shadciffe, Ratcliffe,
Shadwell, vot you call! M-ja, of Paul Ward
writings I am acquaint."

"And you are Paul Ward?" asked Mr.
Dieverbrug.

"I am that apparently distinguished person,"
said George.

Then Mr. Dieverbrug and Mr. Schaub plunged
pell-mell into another conversation, in which,
though the tongues rattled volubly enough, the
shoulders, and the eyebrows, and the fingers
played almost as important parts, the result
being that Mr. Dieverbrug turned to George
and said, " I am quite satisfied to undertake this
affair, Mr. Ward, from what my brother-in-law
has said of your position. Another question
is, what shall I give you for the stones?"

"From what your brother-in-law has said
of my position, Mr. Dieverbrug," said George,
" it will, I presume, be apparent to you that I
am not likely to be much versed in such matters,
and that I must, to a great extent, be dependent
on you."

" But you have some notion of price?"

" I have a notion — nothing more."

"And that notion is——?"

" Well, I imagine the worth of the stones is
about two hundred and fifty pounds!"

At these words Mr. Schaub gave a short
sharp scream of horror, plunging his hands up
to the elbows in the pockets of the red flannel
gaberdine, and glaring at George through the
silver-rimmed glasses. Mr. Dieverbrug was not so
wildly affected; he only smiled the soft smile a
little more emphatically than before, and said:

"There is now no doubt, my dear sir, even if
we had doubted it before, of your living in the
region of romance! These must be Monte Christo
diamonds, of M. Dumas's own setting, to judge
by the value you place on them —- eh?

"Wass won hondert fifty is vat worths," said
Mr. Schaub.

But, fortified in his own mind by the opinion
of the polyglot waiter, who evidently had not
spoken without some knowledge, George at
once and peremptorily declined his bid, and so
to work they went. The stones were had out
again, re-examined, weighed in the brass balances,
breathed upon, held up to the light between the
steel pincers, and, at length, after a sharp
discussion, carried on with most vivid pantomime
between the brothers-in-law, Mr. Dieverbrug
consented to buy them for one hundred and
eighty pounds, and George Dallas accepted
his offer. Then from the recesses of a drawer
in the little wooden table Mr. Dieverbrug
produced a cash-box and counted out the sum
in Dutch coin and gulden notes, and handing
it to George; and shaking hands with him,
the transaction was completed.

Completed, so far as Mr. Dieverbrug was
concerned; but Mr. Schaub had yet an interest
in it. That worthy followed George Dallas
down the stairs, and, as he would have made his
exit, drew him into the bookseller's shop— a
dark dirty den of a place, with old mildewed
folios littering the floor, with new works smelling
of print and paper ranged along the counter,
with countless volumes pile on pile heaped
against the walls. With his skinny yellow hand
resting on George's sleeve, the old man stood
confronting George in the midst of the
heterogeneous assemblage, and peering up into his
face through the silver-rimmed glasses, said:

"And so he wos Paul Vart — eh? Dis young
man wos Paul Vart, von London aus ? And
Paul Vart vill back to London, and Hollandisch
money no good there — eh? Best change for
English, and der old Schaub shall change for
eem — eh?"

"I'm not going back to London, Mr.
Schaub," said George, after a few moments'
puzzling over the old man's meaning. "I'm.
not going back to London; but I shall want
to change this money, as I must send some
of it, the larger portion, to England by
tonight's post, and I am going to the bank to
change it."

"Wass! der bank! der nonsence! It is
the old Schaub vot will change! Give de goot
rates and all! Ach, der old Schaub vot has der
English bank-note to send mit dem posttrager!