it was; by dint of questioning, Zerkow would surely get the information from her.  Some day, if only he was persistent, he would hit upon the right combination of questions, the right suggestion that would disentangle Maria’s confused recollections.  Maria would tell him where the thing was kept, was concealed, was buried, and he would go to that place and secure it, and all that wonderful gold would be his forever and forever.  This service of plate had come to be Zerkow’s mania.

On this particular evening, about a week after the child’s burial, in the wretched back room of the Junk shop, Zerkow had made Maria sit down to the table opposite him—­the whiskey bottle and the red glass tumbler with its broken base between them—­and had said: 

“Now, then, Maria, tell us that story of the gold dishes again.”

Maria stared at him, an expression of perplexity coming into her face.

“What gold dishes?” said she.

“The ones your people used to own in Central America.  Come on, Maria, begin, begin.”  The Jew craned himself forward, his lean fingers clawing eagerly at his lips.

“What gold plate?” said Maria, frowning at him as she drank her whiskey.  “What gold plate?  I don’ know what you’re talking about, Zerkow.”

Zerkow sat back in his chair, staring at her.

“Why, your people’s gold dishes, what they used to eat off of.  You’ve told me about it a hundred times.”

“You’re crazy, Zerkow,” said Maria.  “Push the bottle here, will you?”

“Come, now,” insisted Zerkow, sweating with desire, “come, now, my girl, don’t be a fool; let’s have it, let’s have it.  Begin now, ’There were more’n a hundred pieces, and every one of ’em gold.’  Oh, you know; come on, come on.”

“I don’t remember nothing of the kind,” protested Maria, reaching for the bottle.  Zerkow snatched it from her.

“You fool!” he wheezed, trying to raise his broken voice to a shout.  “You fool!  Don’t you dare try an’ cheat me, or I’ll do for you.  You know about the gold plate, and you know where it is.”  Suddenly he pitched his voice at the prolonged rasping shout with which he made his street cry.  He rose to his feet, his long, prehensile fingers curled into fists.  He was menacing, terrible in his rage.  He leaned over Maria, his fists in her face.

“I believe you’ve got it!” he yelled.  “I believe you’ve got it, an’ are hiding it from me.  Where is it, where is it?  Is it here?” he rolled his eyes wildly about the room.  “Hey? hey?” he went on, shaking Maria by the shoulders.  “Where is it?  Is it here?  Tell me where it is.  Tell me, or I’ll do for you!”

“It ain’t here,” cried Maria, wrenching from him.  “It ain’t anywhere.  What gold plate?  What are you talking about?  I don’t remember nothing about no gold plate at all.”