"Why, don't you know me? I can't be changed that bad. It's Rosie."
I didn't know what his Christian name was and anyway, if I had it wouldn't have helped—a man like Willitts changes his name as often as he does his address. But I had to call him something, so when I saw the anger rising in his eyes, I said, all broken and tender like the deserted wife in the last act:
"Dearie, don't pretend you don't remember me—it's Rosie from the old country."
He began to look savage, also alarmed:
"I don't know what you're talking about. I never saw you before in my life."
He made a movement to pass on, but I drew up close, wiped off the smile, and put on the look of true love that won't let go.
"Oh, dearie, don't say that. Haven't I worn the soles off my shoes hunting for you ever since, ever since—" Gee, I didn't know how to finish it, then it came in a flash. I moaned out, "ever since we parted."
"Look 'ere, young woman," he said, low, with a face on him like a meat ax, "this doesn't go with me. Now get out; get off or I'll 'ave you run in."
I knew he wouldn't do that; he'd hand over the jewels first. I raised up my voice in a wail and said:
"Oh, dearie, you're faking; I won't believe it. You can't have forgot—back in the old country, me and you."