Had a spark of human feeling been left in Dalton's body, it would have been kindled into a flame of sympathy, could he have seen Lady Barbara when she opened the box early next morning, and stood trembling over the loss of the mantilla.

Her first hope was that she had inadvertently taken it to Rosenthal's with the other pieces of lace, and that Mangan had found it when he checked up her work. Then a cold chill ran through her, her anxiety increasing every moment. Had she dropped it in the street? Had the woman who jostled her on the way up the long staircase to the workroom, picked up her package when she stumbled? Perhaps some one had crept in during the night and, finding the box near the door, had caught up the mantilla and escaped without being detected? Could she herself have dragged it into her bedroom, entangled in the folds of her skirt? Was it not near the window, or in her basket, or behind the door, or—

Martha, with a shake of her head, put all these theories to flight.

“No, it isn't in your room at all, and it isn't anywhere else around here; and nobody's been in here from the outside; and they couldn't get in if they tried, for I bolted the door when we went to bed. The only person who has had the run of the place is Mr. Dalton, and he—”

“Martha!”

“Well, I wasn't here when he first came, but when I opened the door he was peeking behind the china.”

“But I had not been inside my room a minute before I heard your voice. How could he have taken it? You don't think—”

“I don't say what I think, because I don't know, but he's mean enough to do anything he could to hurt you. How long had he been talking to you when I came in?”

“Just long enough for me to run past him and lock myself in.”

“And how long do you think it would take him to steal it, if he thought nobody was looking?”

“But he could not have stolen it, Martha; he was on the other side of the room. The box is by the door where I left it; you can see it for yourself. Oh what shall I do? Where could I have dropped it? It must be at the store in that bundle. Mr. Mangan said I need not wait, and I did not see him open it. He has found it by this time and he is waiting for me. I will go right away and see him. Anybody could make a mistake like that. He must—he WILL understand when I explain it all. Get my cloak and hat, please, Martha. I will take the car up and back, and you can have my coffee ready for me upon my return. I won't be half an hour. Oh! how awful it is, how awful! If I had only found it out last night! I had meant to work, but I could not after what happened. Mr. Mangan was very much put out yesterday, and I know he will be furious to-day. No, you need not come with me,” and she was gone.

Martha closed the door, walked to the window, and stood looking through the panes until the slight figure had reached the street, where she caught up her skirt, to free her steps the better, and started on a run for the car line. When the fragile form was lost in the whirl of the traffic, Martha walked slowly to the table and sank into a chair, her elbows resting on its top, her face in her hand.

The next instant she was on her feet examining Lady Barbara's work-basket, wondering what Dalton had found in it, wondering, too, why he had looked through it. Crossing to the dresser, she moved the plates and cups, as he had done, searching for a possible note, or perhaps for a duplicate key of their former apartment which he might have left for Barbara, and then moved toward the door of the smaller chamber, behind which her mistress had lain shivering. Her eye now fell on the box, the lid awry. She remembered that this lid had been in that same position when she had ordered the intruder from the room, and that, at the time, she had thought it strange that Lady Barbara, always so careful, had not fastened it to keep the dust from its contents. Stooping closer, she examined the various articles. She noted that one sleeve of the lace blouse had been lifted from its place, while the other sleeve remained snug where her mistress had tucked it. In pulling out one of the upper pieces, this sleeve must have been caught in its meshes and dragged clear. This could only have been done by the mantilla which, she distinctly remembered, had been laid neatly on top the afternoon before, so as to be ready for work in the morning.

“He's got it,” she exclaimed in an excited tone, replacing the lid. “I'll stake my life he stole it, the dirty cur! He's done it to get even with her. She'll be back in a little while, half distracted. There is going to be trouble, plenty of it. I'll have Stephen here right away, and we'll talk it over. I can take care of her when she's inside these rooms, but what if that man waylays her on the street and raises a row, and she goes back to him to smooth over things? This has got to stop. She won't live the month out if he gets to hounding her again, and now he's found out where she is, I shan't have a moment's peace. What a hang-dog face he's got on him! And he's a coward, too, or he wouldn't have slunk out when I ordered him. And he had it on him all the time! I wonder what he'll do with it. Hold it over her, I expect; maybe take it to Rosenthal's with some lie about her, so they will discharge her and she come back to him.

“Maybe—” Here she stopped, and grew suddenly grave. “Maybe he'll—No, I don't think he'd dare do that, but I've got to get Stephen, and I'll go for him this minute. Going's quicker than a letter, and I'll leave word down-stairs where I'm gone, so she'll know when she comes in, and I'll fix her coffee so she can get it.”

Hurrying into her own room, she began changing her dress, putting on her shoes, taking her night cloak and big, flare bonnet from the hook behind the door, talking to herself as she moved.

“It's getting worse all the time, instead of getting better. God knows what's to become of her! She's most beat out now, and can't stand much more; and she's the best of the lot, except Mr. Felix, for she's clean inside of her, and only her heart is to blame—and that father of hers, Lord Carnavon, with his dirty pride, and this scoundrel she's wrecking her life on, and all the fine ladies at home who turned up their noses at her when half of them are twice as bad—oh, I know 'em—you can't fool Martha Munger! I've been too long with 'em. And this poor child who—Oh! I tell you this is a bad business, and it's getting worse—yes, it's getting worse. Rosenthal isn't going to stand losing that piece of lace, without its costing somebody some money. Stephen's got to come and be around evenings while I'm out. And I'll go with her to Rosenthal's and fetch her back home, so that man Dalton can't frighten the life out of her.”

She put the coffee-pot where it would keep hot, and laid the cups and saucers ready for her mistress. This done, she shut the door, and made her way down-stairs. “Tell Mrs. Stanton when she comes in,” she said to the old woman who acted as janitor, “that I've gone to see my brother, and that I'll be back just as soon as I can.”

All hopes which had cheered Lady Barbara on her way to Rosenthal's, even when she climbed the long stairs and was ushered into Mangan's small office, died out of her heart when she saw the manager's face. She had anticipated an outburst of anger, followed by a brutal tirade over her carelessness in wrapping up the mantilla with the other pieces and leaving it behind her the night before. Instead, he came forward to meet her—his lean, nervous body twitching with expectation.

“Well, this is something like! Didn't think you'd turn up for an hour. Let's have it.” This with a low chuckle—the nearest he ever got to a laugh.

“Something dreadful has happened, Mr. Mangan,” she began, stumbling over her words, her knees shaking under her. “I thought I had wrapped the mantilla up with the pieces I brought you last night, but I see now that—”

“You thought! Say, what are you giving me? Ain't you got it?”

“I have not, and I don't know what has become of it. It was not in the box this morning, and—”

“IT WASN'T IN THE BOX THIS MORNING!” he roared. “See here, what kind of a damn fool do you take me for?” He wheeled suddenly, caught her by the wrist, dragged her clear of the door, and shut it behind her.

“Now, Mrs. Stanton,” he said, in cold, incisive tones, “let's you and I have this out, and I want to tell you right here that I believe you're lying, and I've been suspecting it for some time. Now, make a clean breast of it. You've pawned it, haven't you?”

“I—pawn it? You think I—I won't allow you to speak to me in that way. I—”

“Oh, cut that out, it won't wash here. Now, listen! I've got to get that mantilla, see? And I'm going to get it if I go through every pawn-shop in town with a fine-tooth comb. I orter to have had better sense than to let you take it out of the shop. Now open up, and I'll help you straighten out things. Where is it? Come, now—no side-tracking.”

She had sunk down on the chair, her fingers tightly interlocked, his words stunning her like blows. Their full meaning she missed in her dazed condition. All she knew was that, in some way, she must defend herself.

“Mr. Mangan, will you please listen to me? I have not pawned it, and I would never dream of doing such a thing. I can only think that some one has taken it from the box—I don't know who. I came to you the moment I discovered the loss. I thought perhaps I had wrapped it up with the other pieces I brought you last night, or that I had dropped it in the street on my way here. And, yet, none of these things seemed possible when I began to think about it. I will do all I can to pay for it. You can take its value from my work until it is all paid.”

Mangan, who had been pacing the floor, hearing nothing of her explanation—his mind intent upon his next move—dragged a chair next to hers.

“Now, pull yourself together for a minute, Mrs. Stanton. I'm not going to be ugly. I'm going to make this just as easy as I can for you. You've got a lot of common sense, and you're some different from the women who handle our stuff. I've seen that, and that's why I've trusted you. Now, think of me a little. That mantilla don't belong to Rosenthal's. It belongs to a big customer who lives up near the Park, and who left it here on condition we had it mended on time. It's worth $250 if it's worth a cent, and it's worth a lot more to me, because I lose my job if I don't get hold of it to-day. It's a New Year's present and has got to be sent home to-night. Now, don't that make things look a little different to you? And now, one thing more, and I'm going to put it up to you, just between ourselves, and nobody will get onto it—nobody around here. If it's a matter of ten or fifteen dollars, I've got the money right here in my clothes. And you can slip out and I'll keep close behind, and you can go in and get it, and I'll bring it back here, and that's all there will be to it. Now, be decent to me. I've been decent to you ever since you come here. Ain't that so?”

Lady Barbara had now begun to understand. This man was accusing her of lying, if not of theft, while she sat powerless before him, incapable of speech. Once, as the horror of his suspicion rose before her, she felt a wild impulse to cry out, even to throw herself on his mercy—telling him her story and Martha's suspicions. Then the recollection of the cunning of the man, his vulgarity, his insincerity, slowly steadied her. Her secret must be kept, and she must not anger him further.

“Perhaps, Mr. Mangan, if you came with me to my rooms, and saw my old—” she paused, then added softly, “the old woman I live with, and I showed you where the box is always kept and the way the door opens, perhaps you could help us to find out how it could have happened.”

Mangan rose and pushed back his chair. “Well, you are the limit!” he gritted between his teeth. “I guess I'm in for it. The old man will be howling mad, and I don't blame him.”

He walked to his desk, picked up his telephone, and, in a restrained voice, said: “Send Pickert up here. I'm in my office. Tell him there's something doing.”

Lady Barbara rose from her chair and stood waiting. She did not know who Pickert was nor whether her pleading had moved Mangan, who had now resumed his seat at the desk, piled high with papers, one of which he was studying closely.

“And you don't think it will do any good if you come to my room?”

Mangan shook his head.

“And shall I wait any longer?” she continued. The words were barely audible. She knew her dismissal had come and that she must face another dreary hunt for new work.

Mangan did not raise his head. “Sit down. I'll tell you when I'm through.”

The door opened and a thick-set man, in a brown suit and derby hat, stepped in.

Mangan wheeled his chair and fronted the two. “This woman, Pickert, is carried on our pay-roll as Mrs. Stanton. She's got a room off St. Mark's Place. Here's the number. About a week ago I gave her a lace mantilla to fix, something good—worth over $200—and every day she's been coming here with a new lie. Now she says she's lost it. She's either got it down where she lives or she's pawned it. I've done what I could to save her, but she sticks to it. Better take some one from the office, down-stairs, with you. Maybe when she thinks it over she'll come to her senses. Take her along with you. I'm through.”

As the man stepped forward, Lady Barbara sprang away from his touch. “You do not mean you are going to let this man take me—Mr. Mangan, you must not, you shall not! You would not commit that outrage. Do you mean—?”

Pickert made a gesture of disgust, his fingers outspread. “Keep all that for the captain. It won't cut any ice here, and you'd better not talk. Now come along, and don't make any fuss. If it's a mistake, you can clear it up at the station-house. I ain't going to touch you. You keep ahead until you get to the street-door. I'll be right behind, and meet you on the sidewalk.”

Lady Barbara drew herself up proudly. “I won't allow it!” she cried; “what I told you—”

Pickert swaggered closer. “Drop that, will you? I got my orders. You heard 'em, didn't you? Will you go easy, or shall I have to—” and he half dragged a pair of handcuffs from his side pocket. “Now, you do just as I tell you; it'll all come right, and there won't nobody know what's goin' on. You get to hollerin' and mussin' up things and there'll be trouble, see? Open that door now, and walk out just as if everything was reg'lar.”