“Don’t be funny,” said Eve. “I am serious—very serious.”
“Well, Ostend and Mr. Rainshore yielded twenty-one thousand pounds net. Bruges and the bracelet yielded nine thousand five hundred francs. Algiers and Biskra resulted in a loss of——”
“Never mind the losses,” Eve interrupted. “Are there any more gains?”
“Yes, a few. At Rome last year I somehow managed to clear fifty thousand francs. Then there was an episode at the Chancellory at Berlin. And——”
“Tell me the total gains, my love,” said Eve—“the gross gains.”
Cecil consulted a pocket-book.
“A trifle,” he answered. “Between thirty-eight and forty thousand pounds.”
“My dear Cecil,” the girl said, “call it forty thousand—a million francs—and give me a cheque. Do you mind?”
“I shall be charmed, my darling.”
“And when we get to London,” Eve finished, “I will hand it over to the hospitals anonymously.”