"Me get him! I wouldn't touch him with a pair of tongs. What I want is for him to keep out of here--I told him that last night."

"Well, then, tell me what he looks like, so I can get him."

"Like anybody else until you catch the hang-dog droop in his eyes, as if he was afraid people would ask him some question he couldn't answer."

"One of the slick kind?"

"Yes, for he's been a gentleman--before he got down to be a dog."

"How old?"

"About thirty--maybe thirty two or three. You can't tell to look at him, he's that battered."

"Smooth-shaven--well-dressed?"

"Yes--no beard nor mustache on him. I couldn't see his clothes. His big cape-coat, b.u.t.toned up to his chin, hid them and his face, too. He had a slouch-hat on his head with the brim pulled down when he went out."

"And you say he's been living off of Mrs. Stanton since--"

"No, I didn't say it. I said he was a cur and that she wouldn't go to jail to please him--that's what I said. Now, young man, if you're through, I am. I've got to get my work done."

Pickert tilted his hat to the other side of his bullet head, felt in his side pocket for a cigar, bit off the end, and spat the crumbs of tobacco from his lips.

"You could put me on to the mantilla, couldn't you?--spot it for me once I come across it?"

"Of course I could, the minute I clapped my eyes on it."

"It's a kind of lace shawl, ain't it?"

"Yes. All black--a big one with a frill around it and a tear in one side--that's what she was mending. A good piece, I should think, because it was so fine and silky. You could squash it up in one hand, it was that soft. That's why she took such care of it, putting it back in that box every night to keep the dust out of it."

"Well, what's the matter with your coming along with me?"

"And where are you going to take me?"

"To one or two p.a.w.n-shops around here."

"Well, I'm not going with you. If I go anywhere it will be up to Rosenthal's. I'm getting worried. It's after three o'clock now. She's got no money to get anything to eat. She'll come home dead beat out if she's been hungry all this time."

"Well, it's right on the way. We'll take in a few of the small shops, and then we'll keep on up. There are two on Second Avenue, and then there's Blobbs's, one of the biggest around here. The old woman gets a lot of that kind of stuff and she'll open up when she finds out who wants to know. I've done business with her--where does this fellow, Dalton, live?"

"Up on the East Side."

"Well, then, we are all right. He will make for some fence where he is not known. Come along."

Martha hesitated for an instant, abandoned her decision, and retied her bonnet-strings; she might find her mistress the quicker if she acceded to his request. She stepped to the stove, examined the fire to see that it was all right, added a shovel of coal and, with Pickert at her heels, groped her way down the dingy stairs, her fingers following the handrail. In the front hall she stopped to say to the janitress that she was going to Rosenthal's and to tell Mrs. Stanton, when she came, that she was not to leave the apartment again, as Mr. Carlin was coming to see her.

When they reached the corner of the next block, Pickert halted outside a small loan-office, told her to wait, and disappeared inside, only to emerge five minutes later and continue his walk with her up-town. The performance was repeated twice, his last stop being in front of a gold sign notifying the indigent and the guilty that one Blobbs bought, sold, and exchanged various articles of wearing-apparel for cash or its equivalent.

Martha eyed the cl.u.s.ter of b.a.l.l.s suspended above the door, and occupied herself with a cursory examination of the contents of the front window, to none of which, she said to herself, would she have given house-room had the choice of the whole collection been offered her. She was about to march into the shop and end the protracted interview when Pickert flung himself out.

"I'm on--got him down fine! Listen--see if I've got this right! He wore a black cape-coat b.u.t.toned up close-that's what you told me, wasn't it?--and a kind of a slouch-hat. Been an up-town swell before he got down and out? That kind of a man, ain't he? Smooth-shaven, with a droop in his eye--speaks like a foreigner--English. Somethin' doin'!--Do you know a man named Kling who keeps an old-furniture store up on Fourth Avenue?"

"No, I don't know Kling and I don't want to know him. It will be dark, and Rosenthal's 'll be shut up if I keep up this foolishness, and I'm going to find my mistress. If you can't find Dalton, I will, when my brother Stephen comes. Now you go your way and I'll go mine."

He waited until she had boarded a car, then wheeled quickly and dashed up Third Avenue, crossing 26th Street at an angle, forging along toward Kling's. He was through with the old woman. She was English, and so was Dalton, and so, for that matter, was a man who, Blobbs had told him, had "blown in" at Kling's about a year ago from n.o.body knew where. They'd all help one another--these English. No, he'd go alone.

When he reached Otto's window he slowed down, pulled himself together, and strolled into the store with the air of a man who wanted some one to help him make up his mind what to buy. The holiday crowd had thinned for a moment, and only a few men and women were wandering about the store examining the several articles. Otto at the moment was in tow of a stout lady in furs, who had changed her mind half a dozen times in the hour and would change it again, Otto thought, when, as she said, she would "return with her husband."

"Vich she von't do," he chuckled, addressing his remark to the newcomer, "and I bet you she never come back. Dot's de funny ting about some vimmins ven dey vant to talk it over vid her husbands, and de men ven dey vant to see der vives. Den you might as vell lock up de shop--ain't dot so? Vat is it you vant--one of dem tables? Dot is a Chippendale--you can see de legs and de top."

"Yes, I see 'em," replied the detective, scanning the circ.u.mference of Otto's fat body. "But I'm not buying any tables to-day, I'm on another lead--that is, if I've got it right and your name is Kling."

"Yes, you got it right," answered Otto; "dot's my name. Vat is it you vant?"

"And you own this store?"

"And I own dis store. Didn't you see de sign ven you come in?" The man's manner and c.o.c.k-sure air were beginning to nettle him.

"I might, and then again, I mightn't," Pickert retorted, relaxing into his usual swaggering tone. "I'm not looking for signs. I'm looking for a piece of lace, a mantilla they call it, that disappeared a few days ago from Rosenthal's up here on Third Avenue--a kind of shawl with a frill around it--and I thought you might have run across it."

Otto looked at him over the tops of his gla.s.ses, his anger increasing as he noticed the man's scowl of suspicion. "Oh, dot's it, is it? Dot's vat you come for. You tink I am a fence, eh?"

The detective grinned derisively. "You bought a piece of lace, didn't you?"

"I buy a dozen pieces maybe--vot's dot your business?"

"My business will come later. What I want to know is whether you've got a piece with a hole in it--black, soft, and squashy--with a frill--a flounce, they call it--and I want to tell you right here that it will be a good deal better if you keep a decent tongue in your head and stop puttin' on lugs. It's business with me."

Masie had crept up and stood listening, wondering at the stranger's rough way of talking. So had the tramp, whom Kitty had loaned to Otto for a few hours to help move some of the heavier furniture. He seemed to be especially interested in what was taking place, for he kept edging up the closer, dusting the Colonial sideboard close to which Kling and the man were standing, his ears stretched to their utmost, in order to miss no word of the interview.

"Vell, if it's business, and you don't mean noddin, dot's anudder ting,"

replied Kling, in a milder tone, "maybe den I tell you. Run avay, Masie, I got someting private to say. Dot's right. You go talk to Mrs.

Gossburger--Yes," he added, as the child disappeared, "I did buy a big lace shawl like dot."

Pickert's grin covered half his face. He could get along now without a search-warrant. "And have you got it now?"

"Yes, I got it now."

The grin broadened--the triumphant grin of a boy when he hears the click of a trap and knows the quarry is inside.

"Can I see it?"

"No, you can't see it." The man's cool persistency again irritated him.

"I buy dot for a present and I--Look here vunce! Vat you come in here for an' ask dose questions? I never see you before. Dis is my busy time.

Now you put yourselluf outside my place."

The detective made a step forward, turned his back on the rest of the shop, unb.u.t.toned his outer coat, lifted the lapel of the inner one, and uncovered his shield.