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Therefore, each eye was turned against its neighbor, and each man, as he passed you, asked the silent question, "Did you shoot Herman Rosenthal?" During all the months on the Continent, and particularly in Germany, I felt myself at Rosenthal's funeral. To a greater or less degree other correspondents had similar experiences.
Then she said with a blush, which the lie brought to her cheeks, "He wants to look at some winter materials for a suit at Rosenthal's." The maid still said nothing, only nodded and began quickly to peel the potatoes that were in the basket. "He'll probably go to the chemist's as well to fetch some poison for the rats." She could not help it, the words were forced out against her will.
Ven I buy, I buy, and it is mine to keep. Ven I sell, I sell, and dot's nobody's business." Pickert bit his lip. His bluff had failed. He must go about it in another way, if Rosenthal's customer, who owned the lace, was to regain possession before the New Year set in. "Well, then, sell it to me," he snarled. "No, I don't sell it to you. Not if you give me tventy times tventy tollars.
The particular work uppermost in her mind on the night Stephen had called was the repairing of a costly Spanish mantilla which had been picked up in Spain by one of Rosenthal's customers. Through the carelessness of a packer, it had been badly slashed near the centre an ugly, ragged tear which only the most skilful of needles could restore.
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?
The day following Stephen's visit was one of many spent by Lady Barbara in working at "home," as she called the simple apartment in which Martha had given her shelter. With the aid of a shop-girl whose mother Martha had known, she had found employment at Rosenthal's, on upper Third Avenue.
"Yes, I'm her girl, and I'm yours. Now, isn't there some little thing I could begin with? Would you mind telling me if I was right in what I thought you thought about Mr. Rosenthal's offer?" "What did you think I thought about it?" He was able to put affectionate condescension into the question. She went to her work-basket and took out a sheet of paper.
"I might, and then again, I mightn't," Pickert retorted, relaxing into his usual swaggering tone. "I'm not looking for signs. I'm looking for a piece of lace, a mantilla they call it, that disappeared a few days ago from Rosenthal's up here on Third Avenue a kind of shawl with a frill around it and I thought you might have run across it."
"There is only Martha," she answered at last, yielding to his influence. "She was my nurse when I was a child. She is as poor as I am. She will come to me if you will send word to her. They would not listen to me at Rosenthal's when I begged them to bring her to the store." She lifted her head and stared wildly about her. "Oh, the injustice of it all and the awful horror of this place!
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.
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