ped off a ten-story
building in the morning and was laid out that same night in Digwell's
back room, his friends depositing a fresh suit for him to be buried in,
telling the undertaker to do with the old one as he pleased. And to this
old-clothes shop flocked many another denizen of side streets, who at
one time or another had reached crises in their careers which nothing
else could relieve.

Mrs. Blobbs's curt refusal to receive the lace only added fuel to the
blazing thought that had flared up in Dalton's mind when he recalled the
certificates. Holding on to them had caused one explosion. The mantilla
might prove another such bomb. He dared not leave it at home and he
could not carry it for an indefinite time on his person. If the man
Kling would pay any decent price for it, he could have it and welcome.

With the grim spectre still linking arms with him he hurried on, making
short-cuts across the streets, until he arrived at Kling's corner. At
this point he paused. His terror must not betray him. Shaking himself
free of the spectre, he assumed his one-time nonchalant air, entered the
store and walked down the middle aisle, between the lines of sideboards,
bureaus and high desks drawn up in dress parade. Over the barricade of
the small office he caught the shine of Otto's bald head, the only other
live occupant, except Fudge, who had crept out from behind a bureau, and
bounded back with a growl. Fudge had sniffed around the legs of a good
many people, and might have written their biographies, but Dalton was
new to him. Few thieves had ever entered Kling's doors.

"I have just left your old friends, Mr. and Mrs. Blobbs," he began
gayly, "who have advised me to bring to you rather a rare piece of lace
belonging to my wife. Fine, isn't it?" He loosened the bundle and shook
out the folds of the mantilla.

Otto put on his glasses, felt the texture of the piece between his
fingers, and spread out the pattern for closer examination. "Yes, dot's
a good piece of lace. Vot you vant to do vid it? Dere's a hole in it,
you see," and he thrust a pudgy finger into the gash.

"Yes, I know," returned Dalton, who, with his eye still on the dog, had
been crushing it together so that the tear might not show; "but that is
easily remedied. I want to sell it. Mr. Blobbs tells me it is worth a
hundred dollars."

"Is dot so? Vell--vell--a hundred tollars! Dot's a good deal of money."
He had begun to wrap it up, tucking in the ends. "No-