“Of course dere’s a hole—­I buy him cheaper for dot hole—­my little Beesving like it better for dot.  If it vas new she vouldn’t have it.”

Pickert was now caressing the soft lace, his satisfaction complete.  “A dead give-away,” he said at last.  “Much obliged.  I’ll take it along,” and he began rolling it up.

“You take it—­vat?” exclaimed Otto.

“Well, of course, it’s stolen goods.”

Kling leaned over and caught it from his hand.  “If it’s stolen goods, somebody more as you must come in and tell me dot.  By Jeminy, you have got a awful cheek to come in here and tell me dot!  Ven I buy, I buy, and it is mine to keep.  Ven I sell, I sell, and dot’s nobody’s business.”

Pickert bit his lip.  His bluff had failed.  He must go about it in another way, if Rosenthal’s customer, who owned the lace, was to regain possession before the New Year set in.

“Well, then, sell it to me,” he snarled.

“No, I don’t sell it to you.  Not if you give me tventy times tventy tollars.  And now you get out of here so k’vick as you can—­or me and dot man over by dot sideboard and two more down-stairs vill trow you out!  I don’t care a tam how big a brass ting you got on your coat.  So you dake it along vid you?  Vell, you have got a cheek!”

Pickert’s underlip curled in contempt.  He had only to step to the door and blow a whistle were a row to begin.  But that would neither help him to trail the thief nor to secure the mantilla.

“Now see here, Mr. Kling,” he said, fingering the lapel of Otto’s coat, “I’ve treated you white, now you treat me white.  You make me tired with your hot air, and it don’t go—­see, not with me!—­and now I’ll put it to you straight.  Will you sell me that mantilla?  Here’s the money”—­and he pulled out a roll of bills.

Otto was now thoroughly angry.  “No!” he shouted, moving toward the door of his office.

“Will you help put me on to the man who sold it to you?”

“No!” roared Kling again, his Dutch blood at boiling-point.  “I put you on noddin—­dot’s your bis’ness, dis puttin’ on, not mine.”  He had walked out of the office and was beckoning to the tramp.  “Here, you!  You go down-stairs and tell Hans to come up k’vick—­right avay.”

The tramp slouched up—­a sliding movement, led by his shoulder, his feet following.

“Maybe, boss, I kin help if you don’t mind my crowdin’ in.”  He had listened to the whole conversation and knew exactly what would happen if he carried out Kling’s order.  He had seen too many mix-ups in his time—­most of them through resisting an officer in the discharge of his duty.  Kling, the first thing he knew, would be wearing a pair of handcuffs, and he himself might lose his job.

He addressed the detective:  “I saw the guy when he come in and I saw him when he went out.  Mr. O’Day saw him, too, but he’d skipped afore he got on to his mug.  He’ll tell ye same as me.”