"So your ambition is to be a writer of fiction?" he asked.
"I am a writer of fiction!" replied Lauriston.
Mr. Parminter pulled out a snuff-box and helped himself to a pinch.
"Have you published much?" he enquired, drily.
"Two or three stories--short stories."
"Did they bring in much money?"
"Five pounds each."
"Have you done anything else for a living but that since you came to
London two years ago?"
"No, I haven't!"
"How much have you earned by your pen since you came, now?"
"About thirty pounds."
"Thirty pounds in two years. What have you lived on, then?"
"I had money of my own," replied Lauriston. "I had two hundred pounds when
I left home."
"And that gave out--when?" demanded Mr. Parminter.
"Last week."
"And so--you took your watch to the pawnshop. And--yesterday--your
expected money not having arrived, you were obliged to visit the pawnshop
again? Taking with you, you said just now, two rings--your own property.
Am I correct?"
"Quite correct--two rings--my own property."
Mr. Parminter turned and spoke to a police official, who, lifting aside a
sheet of brown paper which lay before him, revealed the tray of rings
which Lauriston and Ayscough had found on the table in Multenius's
parlour.
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