“Bartoldi!”
Walker seemed to bounce out of his reflection.
“The devil! We’ve got to get back his diamond.”
He darted suddenly out to the traffic of the Avenue, hailed a taxicab and beckoned me to get in with him.
I got in and we went up Fifth Avenue. We were held in a jam of vehicles a block or two farther on.
“And so,” I said, “you think the girl is a nice little country cousin, an esteemed relative—esteemed to the tune of a five-thousand-dollar diamond?”
Walker was fingering his face in reflection.
“Nonsense!” he said. “The girl’s no relation to him.”
“Then why the five-thousand-dollar diamond?”
“That’s what I would like to know,” said Walker.