“You're a nice young man, you are!” she exclaimed, scornfully. “A very nice young man! And you think that poor child is a thief, do you? Do you know who she is and what she's suffered? If I could tell you, you'd never get over it, you'd be that ashamed!”
She was not afraid of him; her army hospital experience had thrown her with too many kinds of men. What filled her with alarm was his reference to Lady Barbara. But for this uncertainty, and the possible consequences of such a procedure, she would have thrown open her door and ordered him out as she had done Dalton. Then, seeing that Pickert still maintained his attitude—that of a setter-dog with the bird in the line of his nose—she added testily:
“Don't stand there staring at me. Take a chair where I can talk to you better. You get on my nerves. It's pawned, is it? Yes. I believe you, and I know who pawned it. Dalton's got it—that's who. I thought so last night—now I'm sure of it.” She was on her feet now, tearing at her bonnet-string as if to free her throat. “He sneaked it out of that box on the floor beside you, when she was hiding from him in her bedroom.”
Pickert retreated slightly at this new development; then asked sharply: “Dalton! Who's Dalton?”
“The meanest cur that ever walked the earth—that's who he is. He's almost killed my poor lady, and now she must go to jail to please him. Not if I'm alive, she won't. He stole that mantilla! I'm just as sure of it as I am that my name is Martha Munger!”
Pickert's high tension relaxed. If this new clew had to be followed it could best be followed with the aid of this woman, who evidently hated the man she denounced. She would be of assistance, too, in identifying both the lace and the thief—and he had seen neither the one nor the other as yet. So it was the same old game, was it?—with a man at the bottom of the deal!
“Do you know the pawn-shops around here?” he asked, becoming suddenly confidential.
“Not one of them, and don't want to,” came the contemptuous reply. “When I get as low down as that, I've got a brother to help me. He'll be up here himself to-night and will tell you so.”
Pickert had been standing over her throughout the interview, despite her invitation to be seated. He now moved toward a seat, his hat still tilted back from his forehead.
“What makes you think this man you call Dalton stole it?” he asked, drawing a chair out from the table, as though he meant to let her lead him on a new scent.