Nick gave an impatient hitch to his breeches.
“This hain’t no bloomin’ police station, is it?” he asked.
“No,” was the reply, “but we like to know where the goods we buy come from.”
Nick put the stone back into his pocket and moved toward the door.
“Wait,” said the clerk. “How much do you want for it?”
“Four ’undred,” was the short reply.
“I’ll give you fifty dollars,” said the clerk.
Nick went back and began to haggle with the clerk. What he wanted was to keep in the store long enough to size it up thoroughly. Besides, he had a notion that the two men who had been described as smelling of rum, and talking like London, might pay their respects to the diamond merchant.
Now and then during the conversation Nick walked to the front door and looked out into the street. Just across the way, Patsy, next to Chick, his best assistant, stood in a make-up similar to that worn by his chief.