"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 a.s.sured 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 s.n.a.t.c.h 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 c.h.i.n.k--and the paper was s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 pa.s.sage--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 a.s.sistance 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 superst.i.tious 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 pa.s.sed 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 gla.s.s. 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 a.s.sortment 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. On the block is a judge's wig, which Mr. Trigge has just been dressing, and a little farther, on a higher block, is that of a counsel. On either side of the fireplace are portraits of Lord Eldon and Lord Lyndhurst. Some other portraits of pretty actresses are likewise to be seen. Against the counter rests a board, displaying the playbill of the evening; and near it is a large piece of emblematical crockery, indicating that bears'-grease may be had on the premises. Amongst Mr. Trigge's live-stock may be enumerated his favourite magpie, placed in a wicker cage in the window, which chatters incessantly, and knows everything, its master avouches, "as well as a Christian."

And now as to Mr. Tuffnell Trigge himself. He is very tall and very thin, and holds himself so upright that he loses not an inch of his stature. His head is large and his face long, with marked, if not very striking features, charged, it must be admitted, with a very self-satisfied expression. One cannot earn the appellation of the Barber of London without talent; and it is the consciousness of this talent that lends to Mr. Trigge's features their apparently conceited expression. A fringe of black whisker adorns his cheek and chin, and his black bristly hair is brushed back, so as to exhibit the prodigious expanse of his forehead. His eyebrows are elevated, as if in constant scorn.

The attire in which Mr. Trigge is ordinarily seen, consists of a black velvet waistcoat, and tight black continuations. These are protected by a white ap.r.o.n tied round his waist, with pockets to hold his scissors and combs; over all, he wears a short nankeen jacket, into the pockets of which his hands are constantly thrust when not otherwise employed. A black satin stock with a large bow encircles his throat, and his shirt is fastened by black enamel studs. Such is Mr. Tuffnell Trigge, yclept the Barber of London.

At the time of his introduction to the reader, Mr. Trigge had just advertised for an a.s.sistant, his present young man, Rutherford Watts, being about to leave him, and set up for himself in Canterbury. It was about two o'clock, and Mr. Trigge had just withdrawn into an inner room to take some refection, when, on returning, he found Watts occupied in cutting the hair of a middle-aged, sour-looking gentleman, who was seated before the fire. Mr. Trigge bowed to the sour-looking gentleman, and appeared ready to enter into conversation with him, but no notice being taken of his advances, he went and talked to his magpie.

While he was chattering to it, the sagacious bird screamed forth: "Pretty dear!--pretty dear!"

"Ah! what's that? Who is it?" cried Trigge.

"Pretty dear!--pretty dear!" reiterated the magpie.

Upon this, Trigge looked around, and saw a very singular little man enter the shop. He had somewhat the appearance of a groom, being clothed in a long grey coat, drab knees, and small top-boots. He had a large and remarkably projecting mouth, like that of a baboon, and a great shock head of black hair.

"Pretty dear!--pretty dear!" screamed the magpie.

"I see nothing pretty about him," thought Mr. Trigge. "What a strange little fellow! It would puzzle the Lord Chancellor himself to say what his age might be."

The little man took off his hat, and making a profound bow to the barber, unfolded the _Times_ newspaper, which he carried under his arm, and held it up to Trigge.