Maria would tell him where the thing was kept, was concealed, was buried, and he would go to that place and secure it, and all that wonderful gold would be his forever and forever.

This service of plate had come to be Zerkow's mania.
On this particular evening, about a week after the child's burial, in the wretched back room of the Junk shop, Zerkow had made Maria sit down to the table opposite him--the whiskey bottle and the red glass tumbler with its broken base between them--and had said: "Now, then, Maria, tell us that story of the gold dishes again." Maria stared at him, an expression of perplexity coming into her face.
"What gold dishes ?" said she.
"The ones your people used to own in Central America.

Come on, Maria, begin, begin." The Jew craned himself forward, his lean fingers clawing eagerly at his lips.
"What gold plate ?" said Maria, frowning at him as she drank her whiskey.
"What gold plate?
I don' know what you're talking about, Zerkow." Zerkow sat back in his chair, staring at her.
"Why, your people's gold dishes, what they used to eat off of.

You've told me about it a hundred times." "You're crazy, Zerkow," said Maria.

"Push the bottle here, will you ?" "Come, now," insisted Zerkow, sweating with desire, "come, now, my girl, don't be a fool; let's have it, let's have it.