“Sorry, lady,” she said. “But we ain’t got any more orange sticks up here. I just sent down to the store room. If you will wait a few minutes they’ll be up.”

“No,” said the customer. “I’ll stop in tomorrow.”

Thank God! thought Babe. She turned and saw the two men with Jenny suddenly seize the girl who had bought a compact from her just a little while ago. If the girl squawked, she was done for.

One man snatched the girl’s package from her. The other held her arms securely above the elbows. She clawed desperately for the parcel which the detective was opening. Becoming hysterical she let out a piercing scream, then fainted dead away.

Mr. Thomas, the store manager, elbowed his way through the crowd, shouting that everything was all right, and for the clerks not to leave their posts.

The detectives of the narcotic squad showed the manager their credentials as they stooped over to pick up the stricken girl.

Roughly grabbing the limp form, they carried her into the manager’s office at the back of the store.

“I beg of you gentlemen,” the manager said excitedly to the officers, “not to take any action until I have informed Mr. Baldwin about what has taken place.”

One of the detectives held up the compact he had found in the store package.

“There’s four two-and-a-half grain cubes of morphine in there. Ask Mr. Baldwin to explain that.”

Wayne Baldwin, sitting in his private office at the Fifth Avenue headquarters of the Baldwin Stores, Incorporated, received the startling report from the Harlem branch. Giving the local manager every assurance of immediate coöperation, he first notified the company’s attorney, then hurried from his office, jumped into a taxi, and made for Harlem.

While the manager was telephoning the big boss, one of the detectives checked over the contents of the girl’s package. There were, besides the dope-filled compact, a ten cent bottle of perfume and a cash register receipt from counter 19. That was Babe’s counter.

Holding the receipt as an important piece of evidence, the officer turned to the manager and in a solemn voice said,

“Send for the girl in charge of counter 19!”

XIX BABE’S LUCK

O’BRIEN, chief of the legal staff of the Baldwin Stores, Inc., took the subway and arrived at the Harlem branch store long before Wayne Baldwin, whose taxi meanwhile was picking its way through the barriers of heavy traffic.

He found the detectives grilling the society girl who, having been restored to consciousness, proved to be a stubborn case, though obviously weak and nervous.

They were trying to force a confession from her with sharp, pointed questions.

“Where did you get this compact?”

“Who sold it to you?”

“You got it in this store, didn’t you?”

“How much did you pay for it?”