Mr. Paddon stepped from the ear he was alone; there was no one about. For a moment the antiquary entertained the idea that the man was about to ambush him, but he immediately dismissed it as absurd, and walked home.
The following day was foggy. The air was uncomfortably heavy, and drops of water came out of the yellow and gray mist and struck Mr. Paddon as he walked swiftly from the station to his antique shop. He entered his shop with a sigh of relief, and closed the door hastily to shut out the fog that billowed inward. He drew off his gloves, and put them, together with his cane, on the counter. His greatcoat and hat he hung on a convenient suit of armor near the door. Then he settled himself on a stool behind the counter, put on his spectacles, and assumed an air of great importance. Hardly had he done so, when he discovered, not three feet from him, the customer of the night before.
Mr. Paddon stared at him for a moment, as if unable to comprehend his appearance. It was almost as if he had materialized from the suit of armor near the door, toward which Mr. Paddon involuntarily looked. Mr. Paddon had not heard the door open. With a half-apologetic smile, the antiquary returned his attention to his customer.
"Well, sir," he began, "I suppose you've eome after that medallion?" "If I could have it for five pounds, sir, I'd take it." The man's face did not change; he stared steadily at Mr. Paddon.
"Well, sir, I'd about decided last night that you could have it at five pounds—though it's a sacrifice, sir, and I 'll never do it again."
The customer's expression did not change.
"But," continued Mr. Paddon, somewhat flustered, "I don't suppose I'd ever have the chance to sell it again for some time; so it's just as well that it goes. By the way, what is your name?"
"Gaunt. Benjamin Gaunt."
"And address?"
"Seven, St. John's Wood Terrace."
"It's just in case of something turning up regarding it—you can't ever tell in this business. It's always better to have a record."
Mr. Paddon placed the medallion on the counter and reached for paper in which to wrap it. The customer reached for the medallion.
"You needn't wrap it; I'll take it just this way."
"As you please, sir." Mr. Paddon smiled; the customer nodded curtly and deposited several coins upon the counter. Then he turned and walked quickly to the door. Mr. Paddon took up the coins. The door closed softly.
Mr. Paddon stopped in the act of depositing the coins in the register to look at them more closely. They were coins of Queen Victoria. He glanced to where Mr. Gaunt had rested against the counter. There were no marks there—nothing at all to indicate that Mr. Gaunt's clothing had been dampened by the London mists.
The door of Mr. Paddon's antique shop opened to admit a middle-aged man, who entered with a great bustle and noise, and almost knocked Mr. Paddon's walking-stick from the suit of armor. From a pocket of his greatcoat he took a catalogue, which Mr. Paddon recognized as one that he had sent out some days before. Mr. Paddon eyed his customer over his spectacles, and fixed a benevolent stare on his visitor's chubby red cheeks.
"Mr. Paddon," the customer began, "I'm James Conroyd—you've got my name on your mailing-list. Some days ago you sent out a catalogue in which you describe a Roman medallion—the particular medallion
