“Ah, let up,” said the Kid, with some heat. “I had some money when I went to work. Do you think I’ve been holding ’em up again? I told you I’d quit. They’re paid for on the square. Put ’em on and come out for a walk.”

Molly calmed her doubts. Sables are soothing. Proud as a queen she went forth in the streets at the Kid’s side. In all that region of low-lying streets Russian sables had never been seen before. The word sped, and doors and windows blossomed with heads eager to see the swell furs Kid Brady had given his girl. All down the street there were “Oh’s” and “Ah’s,” and the reported fabulous sum paid for the sables was passed from lip to lip, increasing as it went. At her right elbow sauntered the Kid, with the air of princes. Work had not diminished his love of pomp and show and his passion for the costly and genuine. On a corner they saw a group of the Stovepipe Gang loafing, immaculate. They raised their hats to the Kid’s girl and went on with their calm, unaccented palaver.

Three blocks behind the admired couple strolled Detective Ransom, of the Central Office. Ransom was the only detective on the force who could walk abroad with safety in the Stovepipe district. He was fair dealing and unafraid, and went there with the hypothesis that the inhabitants were human. Many liked him, and now and then one would tip off to him something that he was looking for.

“What’s the excitement down the street?” asked Ransom of a pale youth in a red sweater.

“Dey’re out rubberin’ at a set of buffalo robes Kid Brady staked his girl to,” answered the youth. “Some say he paid $900 for de skins. Dey’re swell all right enough.”

“I hear Brady has been working at his old trade for nearly a year,” said the detective. “He doesn’t travel with the gang any more, does he?”

“He’s workin’, all right,” said the red sweater, “but—say, sport, are you trailin’ anything in the fur line? A job in a plumbin’ shop don’t match wid dem skins de Kid’s girl’s got on.”

Ransom overtook the strolling couple on an empty street near the river bank. He touched the Kid’s arm from behind.

“Let me see you a moment, Brady,” he said quietly. His eye rested for a second on the long fur scarf thrown stylishly back over Molly’s left shoulder. The Kid, with his old-time police-hating frown on his face, stepped a yard or two aside with the detective.

“Did you go to Mrs. Hethcote’s on West 7th Street yesterday to fix a leaky water-pipe?” asked Ransom.

“I did,” said the Kid. “What of it?”

“The lady’s $1000 set of Russian sables went out of the house about the same time you did. The description fits the ones this lady has on.”

“To h—Harlem with you,” cried the Kid angrily. “You know I’ve cut out that sort of thing, Ransom. I bought them sables yesterday at—”

The Kid stopped short.

“I know you’ve been working straight lately,” said Ransom.

“I’ll give you every chance. I’ll go with you where you say you bought the furs and investigate. The lady can wear ’em along with us and nobody’ll be on. That’s fair, Brady.”

“Come on,” agreed the Kid hotly. And then he stopped suddenly in his tracks and looked with an odd smile at Molly’s distressed and anxious face.