Aaron Rodd Diviner by E. Phillips Oppenheim

Abraham Letchowiski stood in the doorway of his small but brilliantly lit shop in one of the broad thoroughfares leading out of the Mile End Road, and beamed upon the Saturday night passers-by. He was, in his way, a picturesque looking object -- patriarchal, almost biblical. He wore a long, rusty-black frock-coat, from which the buttons had long since departed, but which hung in straight lines about his tall, spare form. His dishevelled grey beard reached to the third button of his waistcoat. His horn-rimmed spectacles were pushed back to his forehead. Every now and then he harangued a likely-looking couple in mild and persuasive accents.

"Young shentleman, shtop von minute. Bring the beautiful young lady inside. I am selling sheap to-night, very very sheap. Young shentleman, you want a real diamond ring? I have the sheapest diamond rings in the vorld. I am Letchowiski, the gem merchant. You bring your moniesh to me. You get better value than anyvere in Vitechapel or the Vest End. Come inside, my tears."