“But ain’t this here desk that—­now—­what-yer-call-it mahogany, too, Mr. Feigenbaum?” Morris asked.

“Well, it’s Costa Rica mahogany, all right,” Feigenbaum said, “but it’s got a flaw into it.”

“A flaw?” Morris and Abe exclaimed with one voice.

[Illustration:  LOOK AT THEM GOODS.]

“Sure,” Mr. Feigenbaum continued.  “It looks to me like somebody laid a cigar on to it and burned a hole there.  Then some cabinetmaker fixed it up yet with colored putty and shellac.  Nobody would notice nothing except an expert like me, though.”

Feigenbaum looked at Morris’ glum countenance with secret enjoyment, but when he turned to Abe he was startled into an exclamation, for Abe’s face was ashen and large beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead.

“What’s the matter, Abe?” Feigenbaum cried.  “Are you sick?”

“My stummick,” Abe murmured.  “I’ll be all right in a minute!”

Feigenbaum took his hat and coat preparatory to leaving.

“Well, boys,” he said genially, “you got to excuse me.  I must be moving on.”

“Wait just a minute,” Abe said.  “I want you to look at something.”

He led Feigenbaum out of the office and down the passageway between the mahogany partitions.  In front of the little cashier’s window Abe stopped and pointed to the shelf and panel beneath.

“Mr. Feigenbaum,” he said in shaking tones, “do you see something down there?”

Mr. Feigenbaum examined the woodwork closely.

“Yes, Abe,” he answered.  “I see it that some loafer has been striking matches on it, but it’s been all fixed up so that you wouldn’t notice nothing.”

“S’enough,” Abe cried.  “I’m much obliged to you.”

In silence Abe and Morris ushered Mr. Feigenbaum to the outer door, and as soon as it closed behind him the two partners faced each other.

“What difference does it make, Abe?” Morris said.  “A little hole and a little scratch don’t amount to nothing.”

Abe gulped once or twice before he could enunciate.

“It don’t amount to nothing, Mawruss,” he croaked.  “Oh, no, it don’t amount to nothing, but sixteen hundred and fifty dollars.”

“What d’ye mean?” Morris exclaimed.

“I mean this,” Abe thundered:  “I mean, we paid twenty-two hundred and fifty dollars for what we could of bought for six hundred dollars.  Them fixtures what we bought it from Flachsman, he bought it from Rifkin’s bankruptcy sale.  I mean that these here fixtures are the positively same identical fixtures what I seen it upstairs in H. Rifkin’s loft.”

It was now Morris’ turn to change color, and his face assumed a sickly hue of green.

“How do you know that?” he gasped.

“Because I was in Rifkin’s old place when that lowlife Feinstein, what works for Henry D. Feldman, had charge of it after the failure; and I seen Feinstein strike them matches and put his seegar on the top from the desk.”