No word was spoken for so long a while that the spirit of the pawnshop, always lying in wait for a moment when human influence ceases to dominate, had a chance for expression. Uncle Myer feared these moments. When he was there by himself he tried to avoid them by whistling, 'phone talks, or strolls to the door, whence he could overhear the busy street. The pledges were now in full power. Each clock ticked its loudest, each bit of bric-a-brac rang true to a vibration, a mandolin string snapped, an antique cabinet creaked as if to say "I could a tale unfold—"
And then a word was spoken—one word, no more.
"Stradivarius!"
Myer's heart thumped. (Did the stranger say it—could a man speak when his lips did not move?) Myer almost believed he had said it himself—only, as it happened, 'twas a word with which he had small acquaintance. Shaking off the weird influence of the silence, he cleared his throat and looked commandingly at the customer. To his relief, the latter spoke at once in a business-like manner.
"That violin," he remarked, "looks rather interesting. My special fad is gems, but I like to look at instruments. I have an idea that one might be unique."
"Sorry, mister," said the pawnbroker, "but that violin is not for sale. It's a pledged article, and only here two days. But I've other instruments. Maybe—"
The man made a gesture of irritation. "No," he said, sharply, "I don't care to waste time on ordinary modern fiddles. Of course that may be nothing more, but I fancied—at least, I'd like to examine it. But if it's not on sale—never mind!"
And he turned toward the door. Could Uncle Myer let him go, thus, taking with him a pawnbroker's prestige and also (perhaps) several dollars' profit? No, Uncle Myer could not!
"Come back," he called, "oh, please come back. I'll take it down—sure there's no harm in just letting you look it over. Then you can tell me what it's worth; and I know you'll be careful handling it. The owner warned me it was delicate."
The pawnbroker watched with deep attention as the customer weighed and examined the instrument, but it was with hope that the violin would be found wanting, as the ring had been. Then the pawnbroker would try him with an amber necklace or a mosaic brooch. These collectors were likely to buy anything.
At first it seemed as if the violin were anything but satisfactory, for after taking it to the door and looking it over in the light from the street, it was brought back and laid aside with seeming carelessness. Still, the customer made no move to depart, and after complaining because there was no fly in the amber, the mosaic was condemned as "modern," his attention reverted to the violin.
"So it's not for sale?" said the customer, slowly. "Well, I'm sorry. I've taken up a lot of your time, and I'd like to see you paid for your courtesy. But—what can a man do when the only object he cares for is 'not for sale'?"
Uncle Myer sighed in disgust, even
