“Oh, cut that out, it won't wash here. Now, listen! I've got to get that mantilla, see? And I'm going to get it if I go through every pawn-shop in town with a fine-tooth comb. I orter to have had better sense than to let you take it out of the shop. Now open up, and I'll help you straighten out things. Where is it? Come, now—no side-tracking.”
She had sunk down on the chair, her fingers tightly interlocked, his words stunning her like blows. Their full meaning she missed in her dazed condition. All she knew was that, in some way, she must defend herself.
“Mr. Mangan, will you please listen to me? I have not pawned it, and I would never dream of doing such a thing. I can only think that some one has taken it from the box—I don't know who. I came to you the moment I discovered the loss. I thought perhaps I had wrapped it up with the other pieces I brought you last night, or that I had dropped it in the street on my way here. And, yet, none of these things seemed possible when I began to think about it. I will do all I can to pay for it. You can take its value from my work until it is all paid.”
Mangan, who had been pacing the floor, hearing nothing of her explanation—his mind intent upon his next move—dragged a chair next to hers.
“Now, pull yourself together for a minute, Mrs. Stanton. I'm not going to be ugly. I'm going to make this just as easy as I can for you. You've got a lot of common sense, and you're some different from the women who handle our stuff. I've seen that, and that's why I've trusted you. Now, think of me a little. That mantilla don't belong to Rosenthal's. It belongs to a big customer who lives up near the Park, and who left it here on condition we had it mended on time. It's worth $250 if it's worth a cent, and it's worth a lot more to me, because I lose my job if I don't get hold of it to-day. It's a New Year's present and has got to be sent home to-night. Now, don't that make things look a little different to you? And now, one thing more, and I'm going to put it up to you, just between ourselves, and nobody will get onto it—nobody around here. If it's a matter of ten or fifteen dollars, I've got the money right here in my clothes. And you can slip out and I'll keep close behind, and you can go in and get it, and I'll bring it back here, and that's all there will be to it. Now, be decent to me. I've been decent to you ever since you come here. Ain't that so?”
Lady Barbara had now begun to understand. This man was accusing her of lying, if not of theft, while she sat powerless before him, incapable of speech. Once, as the horror of his suspicion rose before her, she felt a wild impulse to cry out, even to throw herself on his mercy—telling him her story and Martha's suspicions. Then the recollection of the cunning of the man, his vulgarity, his insincerity, slowly steadied her. Her secret must be kept, and she must not anger him further.
“Perhaps, Mr. Mangan, if you came with me to my rooms, and saw my old—” she paused, then added softly, “the old woman I live with, and I showed you where the box is always kept and the way the door opens, perhaps you could help us to find out how it could have happened.”
Mangan rose and pushed back his chair. “Well, you are the limit!” he gritted between his teeth. “I guess I'm in for it. The old man will be howling mad, and I don't blame him.”
He walked to his desk, picked up his telephone, and, in a restrained voice, said: “Send Pickert up here. I'm in my office. Tell him there's something doing.”
Lady Barbara rose from her chair and stood waiting. She did not know who Pickert was nor whether her pleading had moved Mangan, who had now resumed his seat at the desk, piled high with papers, one of which he was studying closely.