"What!" cried de Bosky, snatching up the coat.
"The arm pits and—ah, the seams fall apart! One could thrust his hand into the hole they have made. Too late!" he groaned. "They have ruined it, my friend."
De Bosky leaned against the bench, the picture of distress. "What will my friend, the safe-blower, say to this? What will he think of me for—"
"Now we know how the estimable Mrs. Jacobs came to have softening of the heart," exploded M. Mirabeau, pulling at his long whiskers.
Mr. Bramble, abandoning the shop downstairs, shuffled into the room.
"Did I hear you say 'moths'?" he demanded, consternation written all over his face. "For God's sake, don't turn them loose in the house. They'll be into everything—"
"What is this?" cried de Bosky, peering intently between the crumbling edges of the rent, which widened hopelessly as he picked at it with nervous fingers.
Stitched securely inside the fur at the point of the shoulder was a thin packet made of what at one time must have been part of a rubber rain-coat. The three men stared at it with interest.
"Padding," said Mr. Bramble.
"Rubbish," said M. Mirabeau, referring to Mr. Bramble's declaration. He was becoming excited. Thrusting a keen-edged knife into de Bosky's hand, he said: "Remove it—but with care, with care!"
A moment later de Bosky held the odd little packet in his hand.
