hurried. No doubt old Verity had absorbed the atmosphere of oak and mahogany, maple and walnut. He might have a richly brocaded soul.
Sorrell strolled on into the Market Square. He looked about him, and then crossed the cobbles and questioned a policeman who was on traffic duty.
"Mr. Verity's shop?"
"Over there,—near the gate."
Sorrell was half-way across the Market Place when he realized that there was something queer about Mr. Verity's shop. He saw it as a red house with a white cornice and white window sashes, and painted in white letters on a black fascia-board "John Verity—Dealer in Antiques," But the shop was shut, the windows were screened by black shutters.
Sorrell glanced at the other shops. No, it was not early closing day; the other shops were open.
He crossed the rest of the space more quickly, and sighting a black door beside the shop, with a brass bell handle in the white door-jamb, he pulled the bell. He was puzzled, aware of a sudden suspense, and when the door opened he found himself staring at the face of a woman who had been weeping.
"Is Mr. Verity in?"
The woman's eyelids flickered.
"Mr. Verity died this morning."
Sorrell's mouth hung open.
"What!"
"Yes—sudden. It must have been his heart. He fell down the stairs—O,—dear"
She began to whimper, while Sorrell stood there with a blank face. He realized that the woman was closing the door.
He blurted something.
"I've just come down. I was to be—the assistant. It's very;—I'm sorry"
"It was so sudden," said the woman. "Of course—without him—nothing—you know. I'm sorry. Have you come far?"
"From London."
"Dear, dear, and you will have to go all the way back—
