“Have I ever chucked any bargain-sale stuff at you, Moll?” asked the Kid, with calm dignity.  “Did you ever notice me leaning on the remnant counter or peering in the window of the five-and-ten?  Call that scarf $250 and the muff $175 and you won’t make any mistake about the price of Russian sables.  The swell goods for me.  Say, they look fine on you, Moll.”

Molly hugged the sables to her bosom in rapture.  And then her smile went away little by little, and she looked the Kid straight in the eye sadly and steadily.

He knew what every look of hers meant; and he laughed with a faint flush upon his face.

“Cut it out,” he said, with affectionate roughness.  “I told you I was done with that.  I bought ’em and paid for ’em, all right, with my own money.”

“Out of the money you worked for, Kid?  Out of $75 a month?”

“Sure.  I been saving up.”

“Let’s see—­saved $425 in eight months, Kid?”

“Ah, let up,” said the Kid, with some heat.  “I had some money when I went to work.  Do you think I’ve been holding ’em up again?  I told you I’d quit.  They’re paid for on the square.  Put ’em on and come out for a walk.”

Molly calmed her doubts.  Sables are soothing.  Proud as a queen she went forth in the streets at the Kid’s side.  In all that region of low-lying streets Russian sables had never been seen before.  The word sped, and doors and windows blossomed with heads eager to see the swell furs Kid Brady had given his girl.  All down the street there were “Oh’s” and “Ah’s” and the reported fabulous sum paid for the sables was passed from lip to lip, increasing as it went.  At her right elbow sauntered the Kid with the air of princes.  Work had not diminished his love of pomp and show and his passion for the costly and genuine.  On a corner they saw a group of the Stovepipe Gang loafing, immaculate.  They raised their hats to the Kid’s girl and went on with their calm, unaccented palaver.

Three blocks behind the admired couple strolled Detective Ransom, of the Central office.  Ransom was the only detective on the force who could walk abroad with safety in the Stovepipe district.  He was fair dealing and unafraid and went there with the hypothesis that the inhabitants were human.  Many liked him, and now and then one would tip off to him something that he was looking for.

“What’s the excitement down the street?” asked Ransom of a pale youth in a red sweater.

“Dey’re out rubberin’ at a set of buffalo robes Kid Brady staked his girl to,” answered the youth.  “Some say he paid $900 for de skins.  Dey’re swell all right enough.”

“I hear Brady has been working at his old trade for nearly a year,” said the detective.  “He doesn’t travel with the gang any more, does he?”

“He’s workin’, all right,” said the red sweater, “but—­say, sport, are you trailin’ anything in the fur line?  A job in a plumbin’ shop don’ match wid dem skins de Kid’s girl’s got on.”