“Yes—no beard nor mustache on him. I couldn't see his clothes. His big cape-coat, buttoned up to his chin, hid them and his face, too. He had a slouch-hat on his head with the brim pulled down when he went out.”
“And you say he's been living off of Mrs. Stanton since—”
“No, I didn't say it. I said he was a cur and that she wouldn't go to jail to please him—that's what I said. Now, young man, if you're through, I am. I've got to get my work done.”
Pickert tilted his hat to the other side of his bullet head, felt in his side pocket for a cigar, bit off the end, and spat the crumbs of tobacco from his lips.
“You could put me on to the mantilla, couldn't you?—spot it for me once I come across it?”
“Of course I could, the minute I clapped my eyes on it.”
“It's a kind of lace shawl, ain't it?”
“Yes. All black—a big one with a frill around it and a tear in one side—that's what she was mending. A good piece, I should think, because it was so fine and silky. You could squash it up in one hand, it was that soft. That's why she took such care of it, putting it back in that box every night to keep the dust out of it.”
“Well, what's the matter with your coming along with me?”
“And where are you going to take me?”