"S'elp me!--one of ourselves!" whispered Melky Rubinstein at Lauriston's
elbow. "Twig him!"
Lauriston was quick enough of comprehension and observation to know what
Melky meant. Mr. Spencer Levendale was certainly a Jew. His dark hair and
beard, his large dark eyes, the olive tint of his complexion, the lines of
his nose and lips all betrayed his Semitic origin. He was evidently a man
of position and of character; a quiet-mannered, self-possessed man of
business, not given to wasting words. He glanced at the card which
Ayscough had sent in, and turned to him with one word.
"Well?"
Ayscough went straight to the point.
"I called, Mr. Levendale, about that advertisement of yours which appears
in all this morning's newspapers," he said. "I may as well tell you that
that book of yours was found yesterday afternoon, under strange
circumstances. Mr. Daniel Multenius, the jeweller and pawnbroker, of Praed
Street--perhaps you know him, sir?"
"Not at all!" answered Levendale. "Never heard of him."
"He was well known in this part of the town," remarked Ayscough, quietly.
"Well, sir--Mr. Multenius was found dead in his back-parlour yesterday
afternoon, about five-thirty, by this young man, Mr.
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