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.”