"Beautiful bit of work, Mr.—Craye, I think—beautiful!" he said, unctuously. "Not made yesterday, that, sir. Old coat-of-arms, you see, and a motto. Um! You don't happen to know whose family coat-of-arms that is, Mr. Craye?"
"No, I don't," said I. "Do you?"
"No, sir, no! as I remarked—when I saw you and the young lady down the road—I'm a learner, a novice, a neophyte, Mr. Craye," he replied. "Fine coat-of-arms, though, that—and a peculiar motto. Now what would you take those words to signify, Mr. Craye?"
Before I could reply, we heard Parslewe coming back, and Mr. Pawley hastily put down the copper box and retreated to his chair, for all the world as if he had been caught or been about to be caught in the act of stealing something.
"These antiquaries!" he murmured, with a cautioning wink at me, "I know 'em!—they don't like their treasures handled. Precious! Old pots—worth sixpence to some people—worth their weight in gold, to them. Just so!"
Parslewe came into the room with a
