Last of all they put in the medley of apparatus on its wooden stand. As they placed it on the wagon, I lounged across the street. “Want to sell that?” I asked, pointing to the apparatus. “Not for anything you want to pay, young man,” came back the answer, to my surprise. “I’ll give you five dollars for it,” I said. Mrs. Rosnosky vouchsafed no reply to my offer, and mounted the seat. Tom, who had heard the conversation, came hurrying across. “What do you want for it?” he asked. “Five thousand dollars,” replied Mrs. Rosnosky, clucking to her horse. Tom seized the bridle. “Nonsense, woman. You got that for nothing, and you ask five thousand dollars. We’re willing to give you a fair price, but that’s robbery.” Mrs. Rosnosky looked at us keenly. “If you really want to talk business,” she said, “say so. That’s worth five thousand dollars.” She seized a cylinder, with a sudden gesture, ripping it from its place. She pointed to a band of silvery metal round it. “That’s platinum,” she said. “There’s five thousand dollars in that stuff for me. If you want it, you take it now or not at all. I know what platinum is worth.” Dorothy, who had crossed the street and stood beside us, broke in. “Take it, Tom,” and Tom obeyed, with a nod. He turned to the woman. “I haven’t five thousand or five hundred dollars with me, but if you’ll come up town, I’ll get five thousand for you.” Mrs. Rosnosky would not part with the apparatus. Tom would not let it out of his sight. Either Tom had to mount the express wagon, or Mrs. Rosnosky had to come in the motor car. The latter was her choice, and Mrs. Rosnosky had the joy of sitting enthroned in a big blue motor, while we sped up town. The bank had long since been closed, and for swiftness and surety we decided to run up to Tom’s club. There he was able to cash a check. Mrs. Rosnosky bore the gaze of the few men who lingered around the big club windows with a perfect and patronizing equanimity, and, her money in hand, finally descended from the car and returned to her East Side abode, a richer woman. Tom heaved a sigh of relief as we started off again. “Thank heaven that red and gold nightmare with the wig is gone. She was a clever one, though. Who’d have thought of her recognizing platinum at a glance. I didn’t, I confess, under all that dust. Poor old Denckel, his heart would break if he could see the machine now.” “Never mind, Tom,” said Dorothy, as he gazed ruefully at the wreck before him. “I think we can get that together again. But how I wish we had the data in the manuscript!” CHAPTER VII