Part 5
The chief set his lips very hard at this. ‘Are the marks—hall-marks and so on, just the same?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ said Moses, ‘and the gold too. It’s only the stone.’
In the end, they went away, and the chief promised to do his best. He knew the stranger, who was a returned convict and a clever trickster. The mystery was the fac-simile of the ring. It implied previous acquaintance of a very intimate type. In about a week Mr Moses received news: the real ring had been pawned in Manchester for five hundred pounds, and was now in possession of the Scotland Yard authorities. The latter had, they said, got a clue to the persons implicated; but they would say nothing more. When Moses was wanted, they would let him have word.
A week or two passed on, and one morning Mr David Moses received an urgent message asking him to go to Scotland Yard. The thieves, or whatever you would call them, were found. He called on Mr Jones, and set out with an exultant heart up the Strand.
‘Well,’ said the chief, ‘we’ve got ’em both. There are two of them. One is the man whose photo I showed you; the other is a young fellow who won’t give any name. He pawned the ring under the name of Morris.’
Moses thought that rather a coincidence; but he let the thought slip out of his mind, and smiled pleasantly when two policemen brought in the well-dressed gentleman who so tricked poor old Rachel. The _ci-devant_ convict winked in a friendly fashion at Jones.
‘Did it well, eh?’ he said. ‘No good disguising it, I suppose? Reckon I’ll get a good dose for this.’
‘You’re right there, my friend,’ said the chief.—‘Take him away, sergeant, and bring the young man in.’
In a minute or two the men returned, leading in a young, loudly dressed man, who hung his head on his breast. Old Moses turned from examining a pair of handcuffs hanging on the wall, and discovered the thief of his cherished diamond to be—his son Solomon! The old man saw it all in a moment. His white face and chattering teeth showed the chief that something was wrong. The old Jew strove vainly to speak for a second or two; then he turned to the chief and stretched out his hands imploringly.
‘O Mr Inspector,’ he said, ‘it’s a mistake—it’s a terrible mistake, ma tear Mr Inspector! Don’t say no more about it, and I’ll—I’ll give _you_ the tiamont—yes, O yes! Why, this is ma tear son Solomon!—O Solomon, my poy, how could you do it?’
‘Your son, eh?’ said the astonished chief. ‘Well, I’m sorry for you, old man; but the law must take its course.’
‘Oh, don’t say that,’ screamed Moses—‘don’t sir, don’t! I’ll give you the stone, and a thousand pounds besides! Let him go, sir.’
‘No; I haven’t the power.—Take him away, men.’ And they marched Mr Solomon off, while poor old David alternately wept and implored and raved, and beseeched the chief to have mercy on his ‘tear poy.’
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That night, they found poor David Moses, alias Mr Alfred Morris, dead in his little sanctum in Wych Street. The doctor said he had died of a sudden shock to the nervous system. We are of opinion that his son Solomon had given him a shock which broke his poor old heart.
A NEW ART-GUILD.
An admirable proposal has lately been made at Liverpool for the formation of an ‘Art-workers’ Guild,’ with the view to the diffusion of sound principles of decoration, and to the encouragement of workmen and others desiring to undertake decorative work of all kinds. The general object would appear to be to find good art-workmen, and to bring them into communication with those who require their work, and also to form a collection of good examples of decorative work of various kinds. Perhaps one of the best results of this sort of effort will be to bring forward the actual worker himself—the real artist, in fact—and thus get rid of the middleman or art-tradesman who hires the genuine artist to do the work, and then stamps it with his (the tradesman’s) own name, as though the work were actually his own, whilst, in fact, he is merely the employer of highly trained and perhaps highly talented art-labour—a system at once as unfair as it is unjust. It has been said that the ugly patterns in calico-printing seem to sell as readily as the pretty ones; and one of the objects of the proposed Guild is to try to alter this—to endeavour to produce a better taste. But teaching a prejudiced and often ignorant public to improve itself on subtle questions and nice points of art-excellence is at best a difficult if not a hopeless task; and if the Guild raises the artist-worker to a better position and gives him direct employment, it will certainly be conferring a benefit on a worthy class of men, never yet properly recognised.
A RETROSPECT.
I waited long; My love was strong For Cary. ‘In spring,’ she said, The darling maid, ‘We’ll marry.’
The winter passed; Spring came at last With showers. But what of them, When after came The flowers!
Our wedding-day, A grand array— Bells ringing! Blue sky above, Hearts full of love, Flowers springing.
My blushing bride And I beside The altar: She looked so nice, Although her voice Did falter.
Our honeymoon Ran all too soon Its measure: We roamed at will By vale and hill, With pleasure.
And years have flown; We’re wiser grown, And older; But aye the same Love’s kindly flame, No colder.
As down we glide, Still side by side, Life’s river, Each opening spring New joys will bring For ever.
J. B. L.
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