"He'll turn up somewhere--never fear," rejoined the Tinker. "But now,
sir, that ve fairly understands each other, are you agreeable to our
terms? You shall give us an order for the money, and ve'll undertake, on
our parts, not to mislest you more." "The pocket-book must be delivered up to me if I assent," said Auriol,
"and the poor dwarf must be found." "Vy, as to that, I can scarcely promise," replied the Tinker; "there's a
difficulty in the case, you see. But the pocket-book'll never be brought
aginst you--you may rest assured o' that." "I must have it, or you get nothing from me," cried Auriol. "Here's a bit o' paper as come from the pocket-book," said Ginger. "Would you like to hear wot's written upon it? Here are the words: 'How
many crimes have I to reproach myself with! How many innocents have I
destroyed! And all owing to my fatal compact with----'"

"Give me that paper," cried Auriol, rising, and attempting to snatch it
from the dog-fancier. Just as this moment, and while Ginger retreated from Auriol, the door
behind him was noiselessly opened--a hand was thrust through the
chink--and the paper was snatched from his grasp. Before Ginger could
turn round, the door was closed again. "Halloa! What's that?" he cried. "The paper's gone!" "The hand again!" cried the Sandman, in alarm. "See who's in the
passage--open the door--quick!" Ginger cautiously complied, and, peeping forth, said--

"There's no one there. It must be the devil. I'll have nuffin' more to
do wi' the matter." "Poh! poh! don't be so chicken-'arted!" cried the Tinker. "But come what
may, the gemman shan't stir till he undertakes to pay us three hundred
pounds." "You seek to frighten me in vain, villain," cried Auriol, upon whom the
recent occurrence had not been lost. "I have but to stamp my foot, and I
can instantly bring assistance that shall overpower you." "Don't provoke him," whispered Ginger, plucking the Tinker's sleeve. "For my part, I shan't stay any longer. I wouldn't take his money." And
he quitted the room. "I'll go and see wot's the matter wi' Ginger," said the Sandman,
slinking after him. The Tinker looked nervously round. He was not proof against his
superstitious fears. "Here, take this purse, and trouble me no more!" cried Auriol. The Tinker's hands clutched the purse mechanically, but he instantly
laid it down again. "I'm bad enough--but I won't sell myself to the devil," he said. And he followed his companions. Left alone, Auriol groaned aloud, and covered his face with his hands. When he looked up, he found the tall man in the black cloak standing
beside him. A demoniacal smile played upon his features. "You here?" cried Auriol. "Of course," replied the stranger. "I came to watch over your safety. You were in danger from those men. But you need not concern yourself
more about them. I have your pocket-book, and the slip of paper that
dropped from it. Here are both. Now let us talk on other matters. You
have just parted from Ebba, and will see her again this evening." "Perchance," replied Auriol. "You will," rejoined the stranger peremptorily. "Remember, your ten
years' limit draws to a close. In a few days it will be at an end; and
if you renew it not, you will incur the penalty, and you know it to be
terrible. With the means of renewal in your hands, why hesitate?" "Because I will not sacrifice the girl," replied Auriol. "You cannot help yourself," cried the stranger scornfully. "I command
you to bring her to me." "I persist in my refusal," replied Auriol. "It is useless to brave my power," said the stranger. "A moon is just
born. When it has attained its first quarter, Ebba shall be mine. Till
then, farewell." And as the words were uttered, he passed through the door. CHAPTER VIII

THE BARBER OF LONDON


Who has not heard of the Barber of London? His dwelling is in the
neighbourhood of Lincoln's Inn. It is needless to particularise the
street, for everybody knows the shop; that is to say, every member of
the legal profession, high or low. All, to the very judges themselves,
have their hair cut, or their wigs dressed, by him. A pleasant fellow is
Mr. Tuffnell Trigge--Figaro himself not pleasanter--and if you do not
shave yourself--if you want a becoming flow imparted to your stubborn
locks, or if you require a wig, I recommend you to the care of Mr.
Tuffnell Trigge. Not only will he treat you well, but he will regale you
with all the gossip of the court; he will give you the last funny thing
of Mr. Serjeant Larkins; he will tell you how many briefs the great Mr.
Skinner Fyne receives--what the Vice-Chancellor is doing; and you will
own, on rising, that you have never spent a five minutes more agreeably. Besides, you are likely to see some noticeable characters, for Mr.
Trigge's shop is quite a lounge. Perhaps you may find a young barrister
who has just been "called," ordering his "first wig," and you may hear
the prognostications of Mr. Trigge as to his future distinction. "Ah,
sir," he will say, glancing at the stolid features of the young man,
"you have quite the face of the Chief Justice--quite the face of the
chief--I don't recollect him ordering his first wig--that was a little
before my time; but I hope to live to see you chief, sir. Quite within
your reach, if you choose to apply. Sure of it, sir--quite sure." Or you
may see him attending to some grave master in Chancery, and listening
with profound attention to his remarks; or screaming with laughter at
the jokes of some smart special pleader; or talking of the theatres, the
actors and actresses, to some young attorneys, or pupils in
conveyancers' chambers; for those are the sort of customers in whom Mr.
Trigge chiefly delights; with them, indeed, he _is_ great, for it is by
them he has been dubbed the Barber of London. His shop is also
frequented by managing clerks, barristers' clerks, engrossing clerks,
and others; but these are, for the most part, his private friends. Mr. Trigge's shop is none of your spruce West End hair-cutting
establishments, with magnificent mirrors on every side, in which you may
see the back of your head, the front, and the side, all at once, with
walls bedizened with glazed French paper, and with an ante-room full of
bears'-grease, oils, creams, tooth-powders, and cut glass. No, it is a
real barber's and hairdresser's shop, of the good old stamp, where you
may get cut and curled for a shilling, and shaved for half the price. True, the floor is not covered with a carpet. But what of that? It bears
the imprint of innumerable customers, and is scattered over with their
hair. In the window, there is an assortment of busts moulded in wax,
exhibiting the triumphs of Mr. Trigge's art; and above these are
several specimens of legal wigs. On the little counter behind the
window, amid large pots of pomade and bears'-grease, and the irons and
brushes in constant use by the barber, are other bustos, done to the
life, and for ever glancing amiably into the room.