“That is false,” exclaimed Grant, indignantly.  “I never saw that woman before in my life.”

“So you are a liar as well as a thief!” said the woman.  “You will please give me those pearls, sir.”

The clerk looked at the two contestants in indecision.  He was disposed to believe the lady’s statement.

CHAPTER VII

MRS. SIMPSON COMES TO GRIEF

“Surely I have a right to my own property,” said the showily dressed lady in a tone of authority, which quite imposed upon the weak-minded salesman.

“I dare say you are right, ma’am,” said he, hesitatingly.

“Of course I am,” said she.

“If you give her those pearls, which belong to my mother, I will have you arrested,” said Grant, plucking up spirit.

“Hoity-toity!” said the lady, contemptuously.  “I hope you won’t pay any regard to what that young thief says.”

The clerk looked undecided.  He beckoned an older salesman, and laid the matter before him.  The latter looked searchingly at the two.  Grant was flushed and excited, and the lady had a brazen front.

“Do you claim these pearls, madam?” he said.

“I do,” she answered, promptly.

“How did you come by them?”

“They were a wedding present from my husband.”

“May I ask your name?”

The lady hesitated a moment, then answered: 

“Mrs. Simpson.”

“Where do you live?”

There was another slight hesitation.  Then came the answer: 

“No.—­Madison Avenue.”

Now Madison Avenue is a fashionable street, and the name produced an impression on the first clerk.

“I think the pearls belong to the lady,” he whispered.

“I have some further questions to ask,” returned the elder salesman, in a low voice.

“Do you know this boy whom you charge with stealing your property?”

“Yes,” answered the lady, to Grant’s exceeding surprise; “he is a poor boy whom I have employed to do errands.”

“Has he had the run of your house?”

“Yes, that’s the way of it.  He must have managed to find his way to the second floor, and opened the bureau drawer where I kept the pearls.”

“What have you to say to this?” asked the elder salesman.

“Please ask the lady my name,” suggested Grant.

“Don’t you know your own name?” demanded the lady, sharply.

“Yes, but I don’t think you do.”

“Can you answer the boy’s question, Mrs. Simpson?”

“Of course I can.  His name is John Cavanaugh, and the very suit he has on I gave him.”

Grant was thunderstruck at the lady’s brazen front.  She was outwardly a fine lady, but he began to suspect that she was an impostor.

“I am getting tired of this,” said the so-called Mrs. Simpson, impatiently.  “Will you, or will you not, restore my pearls?” “When we are satisfied that they belong to you, madam,” said the elder salesman, coolly.  “I don’t feel like taking the responsibility, but will send for my employer, and leave the matter to him to decide.”