“And had a sort of a catch-look, a kind of a slant in his eye, didn't he?” supplemented Pickert; “and was smooth-shaven and--on the whole--rather decent-looking chap, just getting on his uppers and not quite. Ain't that it?” “Yes, maybe, I don't recklemember everyting about him. Vell--vell--ain't dot funny? But he vasn't a dead beat--no, I don't tink so. An' he stole it? You vud never tink dot to see him. I got it in my little office, behind dot partition, in a drawer. You come along. To-morrow is New Year's”--here he glanced up the stairs to be sure that Masie was out of hearing--“and I bought dat lace for a present for my little girl vat you saw joost now--she loves dem old tings. She has got more as a vardrobe full of dem. Vait till I untie it. Look! Ain't dot a good vun? And all I pay for it vas tventy tollars.” The detective loosened the folds, shook out the flounce, held it up to the light, and ran his thumb through the tear in the mesh. “Of course dere's a hole--I buy him cheaper for dot hole--my little Beesving like it better for dot. If it vas new she vouldn't have it.” Pickert was now caressing the soft lace, his satisfaction complete. “A dead give-away,” he said at last. “Much obliged. I'll take it along,” and he began rolling it up. “You take it--VAT?” exclaimed Otto. “Well, of course, it's stolen goods.” Kling leaned over and caught it from his hand. “If it's stolen goods, somebody more as you must come in and tell me dot. By Jeminy, you have got a awful cheek to come in here and tell me dot! Ven I buy, I buy, and it is mine to keep. Ven I sell, I sell, and dot's nobody's business.” Pickert bit his lip. His bluff had failed. He must go about it in another way, if Rosenthal's customer, who owned the lace, was to regain possession before the New Year set in. “Well, then, sell it to me,” he snarled. “No, I don't sell it to you. Not if you give me tventy times tventy tollars. And now you get out of here so k'vick as you can--or me and dot man over by dot sideboard and two more down-stairs vill trow you out! I don't care a tam how big a brass ting you got on your coat. So you dake it along vid you? Vell, you have got a cheek!” Pickert's underlip curled in contempt. He had only to step to the door and blow a whistle were a row to begin. But that would neither help him to trail the thief nor to secure the mantilla. “Now see here, Mr. Kling,” he said, fingering the lapel of Otto's coat, “I've treated you white, now you treat me white. You make me tired with your hot air, and it don't go--see, not with me!--and now I'll put it to you straight. Will you sell me that mantilla? Here's the money”--and he pulled out a roll of bills. Otto was now thoroughly angry. “NO!” he shouted, moving toward the door of his office. “Will you help put me on to the man who sold it to you?”