that I've been searching for half my life. I've good reason to believe that it's the very medallion I lost years ago. Where did you get hold of it, by the way?"
"Why, I—I haven't any idea, Mr. Conroyd. Perhaps I could look it up, but it's pretty hard to keep account."
"Never mind. Let me see it, will you?"
"I'm sorry," said Mr. Paddon, looking rather futile, "but I sold it not ten minutes ago."
Mr. Conroyd opened his eyes wide. "You sold it? To whom, if I may ask?"
"To a Mr. Benjamin Gaunt."
"Why, that's the man I bought it from! The only other man who was looking for the medallion gets here before I do! You see, Mr. Paddon, some years ago, when I was little more than a kid, I bought the thing from Gaunt for five pounds."
"That's what I sold it to him for!"
"That's a coincidence. After I'd bought it from him, he was continually pestering me to sell it back to him. I never would have sold it to him. But one day I lost it." Suddenly Mr. Conroyd's face underwent a change. He stared at Mr. Paddon, who smiled respectfully. Then suddenly his face flushed angrily. "Say, listen! I don't know what your idea is, but you faked this fellow's name. Benjamin Gaunt died five years ago!"
Mr. Paddon looked his dismay. He felt suddenly horribly useless, and hastened to assure Mr. Conroyd that he had sold the medallion to Mr. Benjamin Gaunt.
"No, no, Mr. Conroyd. I sold it to a man who gave me that name."
"Did he give you his address?" asked Mr. Conroyd, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.
"Yes. It's seven, St. John's Wood Terrace."
"Could you go out there with me, Mr. Paddon? I'm bound to have that medallion—no matter what I pay for it."
"Well?"
"I'll pay you for your time."
Mr. Paddon looked dubiously at the fog outside, then back at his eager visitor. "Yes," he said, "I'll go."
Seven, St. John's Wood Terrace, was not difficult to find. Everyone seemed to know of it, and when the antiquary and his customer asked about it, they were treated to curious stares, and in some cases, discreet smiles. Seven, St. John's Wood Terrace, was a deserted house in its last stages. Not a window-pane remained in the ramshackle structure, and there were no doors. The shingles were green with moss, and the chimney had crumbled long before. There was no longer a discernible path leading to the door.
"Well," said Mr. Paddon, "should we go in?"
"I suppose we might as well, seeing we've come this far."
The two men hesitated a moment, and looked about them and back at the house, before they walked slowly up to the structure. They entered. Their footprints broke into the dust of years as they went from room to room.
In a little chamber in the back of the house Mr. Conroyd found the Roman medallion. On the table were marks disturbing the dust, where the medallion had been thrown. In one corner of the room lay an old beaver hat, damaged beyond repair. There were no footprints in the room, nor could the men find where the medallion had entered.
"Certainly Benjamin Gaunt's," said Mr. Conroyd, picking up the hat.
Quite near the table, covered with dust, Mr. Paddon noticed a black muffler. Some distance away lay all that was left of a pair of square spectacles.
