He waited until she had boarded a car, then wheeled quickly and dashed up Third Avenue, crossing 26th Street at an angle, forging along toward Kling’s.  He was through with the old woman.  She was English, and so was Dalton, and so, for that matter, was a man who, Blobbs had told him, had “blown in” at Kling’s about a year ago from nobody knew where.  They’d all help one another—­these English.  No, he’d go alone.

When he reached Otto’s window he slowed down, pulled himself together, and strolled into the store with the air of a man who wanted some one to help him make up his mind what to buy.  The holiday crowd had thinned for a moment, and only a few men and women were wandering about the store examining the several articles.  Otto at the moment was in tow of a stout lady in furs, who had changed her mind half a dozen times in the hour and would change it again, Otto thought, when, as she said, she would “return with her husband.”

“Vich she von’t do,” he chuckled, addressing his remark to the newcomer, “and I bet you she never come back.  Dot’s de funny ting about some vimmins ven dey vant to talk it over vid her husbands, and de men ven dey vant to see der vives.  Den you might as vell lock up de shop—­ain’t dot so?  Vat is it you vant—­one of dem tables?  Dot is a Chippendale—­ you can see de legs and de top.”

“Yes, I see ’em,” replied the detective, scanning the circumference of Otto’s fat body.  “But I’m not buying any tables to-day, I’m on another lead—­that is, if I’ve got it right and your name is Kling.”

“Yes, you got it right,” answered Otto; “dot’s my name.  Vat is it you vant?”

“And you own this store?”

“And I own dis store.  Didn’t you see de sign ven you come in?” The man’s manner and cock-sure air were beginning to nettle him.

“I might, and then again, I mightn’t,” Pickert retorted, relaxing into his usual swaggering tone.  “I’m not looking for signs.  I’m looking for a piece of lace, a mantilla they call it, that disappeared a few days ago from Rosenthal’s up here on Third Avenue—­a kind of shawl with a frill around it—­and I thought you might have run across it.”

Otto looked at him over the tops of his glasses, his anger increasing as he noticed the man’s scowl of suspicion.  “Oh, dot’s it, is it?  Dot’s vat you come for.  You tink I am a fence, eh?”

The detective grinned derisively.  “You bought a piece of lace, didn’t you?”

“I buy a dozen pieces maybe—­vot’s dot your business?”

“My business will come later.  What I want to know is whether you’ve got a piece with a hole in it—­ black, soft, and squashy—­with a frill—­a flounce, they call it—­and I want to tell you right here that it will be a good deal better if you keep a decent tongue in your head and stop puttin’ on lugs.  It’s business with me.”

Masie had crept up and stood listening, wondering at the stranger’s rough way of talking.  So had the tramp, whom Kitty had loaned to Otto for a few hours to help move some of the heavier furniture.  He seemed to be especially interested in what was taking place, for he kept edging up the closer, dusting the Colonial sideboard close to which Kling and the man were standing, his ears stretched to their utmost, in order to miss no word of the interview.