He had lived for self, and self alone; and his own interests were involved in the issue of to-night.
A few steps brought him before Jacob Nowell's window.

Yes, it was just as he remembered it twenty years before--the same dingy old silver, the same little heap of gold, the same tray of tarnished jewelry glimmered in the faint light of a solitary gas-burner behind the murky glass.

On the door-plate there was still Jacob Nowell's name.

Yet all this might mean nothing.

The grave might have closed over the old silversmith, and the interest of trade necessitate the preservation of the familiar name.
The gentleman calling himself Percival went into the shop.