The shop was narrow and lofty. It seemed like a menagerie for trapped silverware. In glass cases right up to the dark ceiling silver vessels and instruments of all kinds lay confined. The top of the counter was a glass prison containing dozens of gold watches, together with snuffboxes, enamels, and other antiquities. The front of the counter was also glazed, showing vases and large pieces of porcelain. A few pictures in heavy gold frames were perched about. There was a case of umbrellas with elaborate handles and rich tassels. There were a couple of statuettes. The counter, on the customers’ side, ended in a glass screen on which were the words “Private Office.” On the seller’s side the prospect was closed by a vast safe. A tall young man was fumbling in this safe. Two women sat on customers’ chairs, leaning against the crystal counter. The young man came towards them from the safe, bearing a tray.
“How much is that goblet?” asked one of the women, raising her parasol dangerously among such fragility and pointing to one object among many in a case high up from the ground.
“That, madam?”
“Yes.”
“Thirty-five pounds.”
The young man disposed his tray on the counter. It was packed with more gold watches, adding to the extraordinary glitter and shimmer of the shop. He chose a small watch from the regiment.
“Now, this is something I can recommend,” he said. “It’s made by Cuthbert Butler of Blackburn. I can guarantee you that for five years.” He spoke as though he were the accredited representative of the Bank of England, with calm and absolute assurance.
The effect upon Sophia was mysteriously soothing. She felt that she was among honest men. The young man raised his head towards her with a questioning, deferential gesture.
“Can I see Mr. Boldero?” she asked. “Mrs. Scales.”
The young man’s face changed instantly to a sympathetic comprehension.
“Yes, madam. I’ll fetch him at once,” said he, and he disappeared behind the safe. The two customers discussed the watch. Then the door opened in the glass screen, and a portly, middle-aged man showed himself. He was dressed in blue broadcloth, with a turned-down collar and a small black tie. His waistcoat displayed a plain but heavy gold watch-chain, and his cufflinks were of plain gold. His eyeglasses were gold-rimmed. He had grey hair, beard and moustache, but on the backs of his hands grew a light brown hair. His appearance was strangely mild, dignified, and confidence-inspiring. He was, in fact, one of the most respected tradesmen in Manchester.
He peered forward, looking over his eyeglasses, which he then took off, holding them up in the air by their short handle. Sophia had approached him.
“Mrs. Scales?” he said, in a very quiet, very benevolent voice. Sophia nodded. “Please come this way.” He took her hand, squeezing it commiseratingly, and drew her into the sanctum. “I didn’t expect you so soon,” he said. “I looked up th’ trains, and I didn’t see how you could get here before six.”
Sophia explained.
He led her further, through the private office, into a sort of parlour, and asked her to sit down. And he too sat down. Sophia waited, as it were, like a suitor.
“I’m afraid I’ve got bad news for you, Mrs. Scales,” he said, still in that mild, benevolent voice.
“He’s dead?” Sophia asked.
Mr. Till Boldero nodded. “He’s dead. I may as well tell you that he had passed away before I telegraphed. It all happened very, very suddenly.” He paused. “Very, very suddenly!”
“Yes,” said Sophia, weakly. She was conscious of a profound sadness which was not grief, though it resembled grief. And she had also a feeling that she was responsible to Mr. Till Boldero for anything untoward that might have occurred to him by reason of Gerald.
“Yes,” said Mr. Till Boldero, deliberately and softly. “He came in last night just as we were closing. We had very heavy rain here. I don’t know how it was with you. He was wet, in a dreadful state, simply dreadful. Of course, I didn’t recognize him. I’d never seen him before, so far as my recollection goes. He asked me if I was the son of Mr. Till Boldero that had this shop in 1866. I said I was. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘you’re the only connection I’ve got. My name’s Gerald Scales. My mother was your father’s cousin. Can you do anything for me?’ he says. I could see he was ill. I had him in here. When I found he couldn’t eat nor drink I thought I’d happen better send for th’ doctor. The doctor got him to bed. He passed away at one o’clock this afternoon. I was very sorry my wife wasn’t here to look after things a bit better. But she’s at Southport, not well at all.”
“What was it?” Sophia asked briefly.
Mr. Boldero indicated the enigmatic. “Exhaustion, I suppose,” he replied.
“He’s here?” demanded Sophia, lifting her eyes to possible bedrooms.
“Yes,” said Mr. Boldero. “I suppose you would wish to see him?”
“Yes,” said Sophia.
“You haven’t seen him for a long time, your sister told me?” Mr. Boldero murmured, sympathetically.
“Not since ’seventy,” said Sophia.
“Eh, dear! Eh, dear!” ejaculated Mr. Boldero. “I fear it’s been a sad business for ye,
