The dimly lit room, Fagin's makeshift office, was still, silent, and filled with the smell of must. The old man sat, hunched over his desk, going over a few papers. His eyes, as usual, darted around the room, nervous at the thought of the kids ever suspecting he pocketed more goods than he swore.

He was caught off guard when someone pushed the door open, interrupting his careful gaze. "Who is it?" He croaked out quickly, shoving a necklace back into a wooden box and slamming it shut.