Connie could not imagine
why her father was taking her into a certain dingy street, and why he
suddenly stopped at a door which had not yet been shut for the night.
"I thought as there were a chance of findin' him up," he said. "Come
right in, gel."
Connie entered, and the next minute Harris was addressing the pawnbroker
from whom he had stolen the locket.
"I 'ave a word to say with you," he remarked; and then he related the
circumstances of that day, several weeks ago now.
"But we found it," said the pawnbroker, "in the pocket of the young
gel."
"It was I as put it there," said Harris. "It was I--the meanest wretch
on 'arth. But I've come to my senses at last. You can lock me up ef yer
like. I'll stay 'ere; I won't even leave the shop ef yer want to deliver
the real thief over to justice."
The pawnbroker stared at the man; then he looked at Connie. There is no
saying what he might have done; but Connie's face, with its pleading
expression, was enough to disarm any one.
"The fact is," he began "this sort o' thing ought to be punished, or
however could poor folks live? But it's a queer thing. When the young
gel vanished, as it seemed, into the depths of the 'arth, and I 'ad got
my property back, I tuk no further trouble. In course, now that you 'ave
delivered yerself up, it seems a'most fair that the law should take its
course.
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