“Not—­surely not the immaculate Hill?” said Wedderburn, recovering.

“I don’t believe it,” said Miss Haysman.  “How do you know?”

“I didn’t,” said the girl in spectacles.  “But I know it now for a fact.  Mr. Hill went and confessed to Professor Bindon himself.”

“By Jove!” said Wedderburn.  “Hill of all people.  But I am always inclined to distrust these philanthropists-on-principle—­”

“Are you quite sure?” said Miss Haysman, with a catch in her breath.

“Quite.  It’s dreadful, isn’t it?  But, you know, what can you expect?  His father is a cobbler.”

Then Miss Haysman astonished the girl in spectacles.

“I don’t care.  I will not believe it,” she said, flushing darkly under her warm-tinted skin.  “I will not believe it until he has told me so himself—­ face to face.  I would scarcely believe it then,” and abruptly she turned her back on the girl in spectacles, and walked to her own place.

“It’s true, all the same,” said the girl in spectacles, peering and smiling at Wedderburn.

But Wedderburn did not answer her.  She was indeed one of those people who seemed destined to make unanswered remarks.

  XIX.

  THE CRYSTAL EGG.

There was, until a year ago, a little and very grimy-looking shop near Seven Dials, over which, in weather-worn yellow lettering, the name of “C.  Cave, Naturalist and Dealer in Antiquities,” was inscribed.  The contents of its window were curiously variegated.  They comprised some elephant tusks and an imperfect set of chessmen, beads and weapons, a box of eyes, two skulls of tigers and one human, several moth-eaten stuffed monkeys (one holding a lamp), an old-fashioned cabinet, a fly-blown ostrich egg or so, some fishing-tackle, and an extraordinarily dirty, empty glass fish-tank.  There was also, at the moment the story begins, a mass of crystal, worked into the shape of an egg and brilliantly polished.  And at that two people who stood outside the window were looking, one of them a tall, thin clergyman, the other a black-bearded young man of dusky complexion and unobtrusive costume.  The dusky young man spoke with eager gesticulation, and seemed anxious for his companion to purchase the article.

While they were there, Mr. Cave came into his shop, his beard still wagging with the bread and butter of his tea.  When he saw these men and the object of their regard, his countenance fell.  He glanced guiltily over his shoulder, and softly shut the door.  He was a little old man, with pale face and peculiar watery blue eyes; his hair was a dirty grey, and he wore a shabby blue frock-coat, an ancient silk hat, and carpet slippers very much down at heel.  He remained watching the two men as they talked.  The clergyman went deep into his trouser pocket, examined a handful of money, and showed his teeth in an agreeable smile.  Mr. Cave seemed still more depressed when they came into the shop.