Mitch knocked on the door of the house. He waited a second, then pounded, adding an angry kick for good measure. The door opened suddenly, and a redhead glared out at him. She was young, built like a brick henhouse in a windy country. Judging by the nightgown beneath her half-opened robe, she had been asleep.

"Beat it!" she snapped. "Whatever you're selling, I don't want any."

Mitch smiled apologetically, flashing one of Doc Krug's business cards. The card identified him as an associate of Krug's and Company, San Diego's largest buyer of precious metals and old jewelry.

"I'm not selling a thing, lady. I'm here to--"

"Yeah, yeah, I know." The girl cut him off impatiently. "I've heard the spiel before. What would I have that was worth any dough?"

Mitch's smile vanished. He was about to say that she had plenty that was worth dough, and that she was doubtless selling it regularly. But then he saw the thing--the cup or the bowl or whatever the hell it was. And the insulting words died in his throat.

"I'm terribly sorry to have disturbed you, madam," he said earnestly. "I did hope you might have some old trinkets I could purchase, but since you haven't..." He gave her a courtly bow. The girl's face and her voice softened.

"I really don't have a thing, mister. And I'm sorry if I was rude. You see, I work all night in a restaurant and--" She broke off with a gasp. "What's the matter? For God's sake, what's the matter?"

Mitch didn't answer. He simply moaned, clutching his heart, his handsome face contorted with pain. The girl's reaction was exactly what he hoped it to be. She was one of those tough babies. All the toughies had a soft streak; they were easier to handle, really, than the so-called softies.

So, less than a minute after he had gone into his act, he was seated in the living room, sipping at the glass of water which she held to his mouth.

Bent over him as she was, she gave him plenty to look at. Unfortunately, he couldn't be bothered, at the moment. His seemingly closed eyes were fixed on a shelf near the window, attempting to appraise the cup-shaped object, which stood there betwixt a withering potted plant and a battered alarm clock.

Doc Krug had tried to drum some knowledge of antiques into him. It was necessary, Doc pointed out, if Mitch was to work with him in fencing hot items. Moreover, Mitch had the hustler's instinct for something good--for a tangible or intangible that could be turned for a big dollar. Still, he had no real idea of what the thing on the shelf was worth.

All he knew was that (1) it must be worth a wad, and (2) he'd get it away from the babe if he had to slug her.

"Better now?" Her anxious voice interrupted his thoughts. "Answer me, please!"

Mitch allowed his eyes to flutter open. He gave her a brave, weak smile.

"I'm all right, now, thanks to you. You saved my life, Miss--Miss--"

"Turner. Peggy Turner. What was it, your heart?"

Mitch nodded. "It's my own fault, I suppose, for leaving the hospital this morning. But I'd been there for so long. Two years of lying on my back, accepting charity..."

"Charity?" She frowned at him suspiciously.

Mitch continued, lying with the smoothness of long practice, "My good friend Doctor Krug lent me some clothes. He gave me this job, and a little money to work with. I wish I could justify his faith in me. But"--he sighed heavily--"I haven't made a purchase all day, and it doesn't look like I will. So the only honorable thing for me to do is to quit."

"But--what will happen to you? How will you live?"

"It doesn't matter," Mitch said gently. "I don't have long to live anyway."

It went against his hustler's pride to deal out such terrible corn. But Peggy Turner was lapping it up. Timidly, she suggested lending him a few dollars. He refused it with a firm smile of thanks.

"I do wish you had something that I might buy from you, Miss Turner, but since you haven't, I'll--"

"I really don't, Mr. Allison. Honest, I don't." Her tear-dimmed eyes strayed to the shelf. "Except maybe that old goblet. But I doubt that'd be any good to you."

"I'm afraid not," Mitch said doubtfully. "Of course, it wouldn't hurt to look at it."

She handed it to him. Mitch examined it, his lips pursed deprecatingly to conceal his excitement. Its finish was dull, greenish with age. Each of the four grime-obscured handles was formed in the shape of a different figure, a mermaid, a knight, and so on. The under-rim was a metallic circle of lace--filigree--as exquisite as it was intricate.

"Kind of cute, isn't it?" the girl said. "I was trying to remember where I got the thing."

"Yes," Mitch murmured. "It is kind of cute."

He hefted it casually, decided that it was undoubtedly gold. Of course, lead or some other base metal would weigh heavily, too. But it seemed unlikely that any metal but gold would have received so much careful workmanship.

It just wasn't done, Krug had explained to him. Diamonds were not mounted in tin. Expert craftsmen did not spend their valuable time on the intrinsically cheap.

He looked up suddenly. There was a peculiar expression on the girl's face, something that seemed strangely close to amusement. It disappeared immediately, so swiftly that he was not sure he had seen it. He decided that he hadn't, that it was only his guilty imagination, and the tension drained out of his body.

"Well," she said. "Is it worth anything, Mr. Allison?"

"Well," Mitch said. "It's not completely worthless."

"I see."

"There's a little silver in it. Just plate, you know, but it is worth something."

"Yes?"

"Well," Mitch squirmed inwardly. Was she wise? Was she just leading him on, building up to a horselaugh? "Well, I have to make a little profit. Not much, only fifty cents or so, or maybe a dollar."

"Yes?"

"I can offer you two dollars for it," Mitch said.

The girl choked, and burst into laughter.

Mitch's eyes flashed venomously. He got a firm grip on the cup, and pushed himself up from the chair. One of his hands balled into fist.

"Please," Peggy Turner gasped. "Please forgive me, but--"

"Sure," said Mitch grimly. "Sure, I'll forgive you."

"You poor innocent, you! You poor helpless thing! Of course I won't sell you that cup!"

"Of course you won't," Mitch said, and drew a bead on her chin.

He'd slugged plenty of dames for less reason. Socking this one would be both pleasurable and profitable. By the time she stopped listening to the birdies he'd have the cup to Krug and be miles away.

"I wouldn't think of taking your money," she said. "I'll give you the cup."

She wrapped it in a paper bag to carry.

As he started down the street toward the town, he thought he heard another burst of half-hysterical laughter. But a train was passing, so he wasn't sure. It wasn't something to be bothered about, anyway. She was just a nut--one of those babes who laughed instead of crying. Now that he had the cup, she could laugh her pretty red head off for all he cared.