The detective betrayed no surprise, neither over the mention of his own name nor that of Stanton. If the tramp's story were true he would have the bracelets on the thief before morning. He decided, however, to try the old game first. “It may be worth something to you if you can make good,” he said, with a confidential shrug of his near shoulder. The tramp thrust out his chin with a gesture of disgust. “Nothin' doin'! You can keep your plunks. I don't want 'em. I know you fellers--I got onto your curves when I was on my uppers. When you can't get your flippers on the right man you slip 'em on the first galoot you catch, and I want to tell you right here that you can't mix Mr. O'Day in this business, for he don't know nothin' about it, nor anything else that's crooked. I'll get this man Stanton for you if the boss will let me out for an hour. Shall I ask him?” Pickert examined his finger-nails for a brief moment--one seemed in need of immediate repairs--his mind all the while in deep thought. The tramp might help or he might not. He evidently knew him, and it was possible that he also knew Stanton, the name borne by the woman charged with the theft; or the whole yarn might be a ruse to give the real thief a tip, and thus block everything. Lipton's place he frequented, and the Bowdoin House he could find. “No, you stay here,” he broke out. “I'll get him.” He walked back to the office, the tramp following. “I say, Mr. Kling!” he called impudently. Otto lifted his head. He had locked up the mantilla and had the key in his pocket. For him the incident was closed. “Vell?” replied Otto dryly. “Does this man work over at Cleary's express?” “He does. Vy?” “Oh, nothing. I may want him later. And, say!” “Vell,” again replied Otto. “Git wise and surprise that little girl of yours with something else--she'll never wear that mantilla. So long,” and he strode out of the store. Chapter XXIII The short winter's day had run its course and a soft, aimless snow was falling--each flake a lazy feather, careless of its fate. The store windows were ablaze, and many of the houses on both sides of “The Avenue” were alive with newly kindled gas-jets, the street-lamps shedding their light over a broad highway blocked with slipping teams, their carts crammed to the utmost with holiday freight.