The young man eyed her a moment as if he felt her to be intruding unwarrantably in his private concerns, but presently determined to reply.
“A certain gold mine, whose location I cannot remember at the moment. It was described as of fabulous wealth, and I was assured the return from my investment of five hundred dollars would lift me above the sordid necessity of working for wages.... I regret to say that hitherto there has been no material assurance of the truth of the statements made to me.”
“Poor lamb!” said Carmel under her breath.
“I beg your pardon?”
Carmel shook her head. “So you are—out of a job—and broke?” she said.
“Broke,” he said, lugubriously, “is an exceedingly expressive term.”
“And what shall you do?”
He looked about him, at his feet, through the door into the shop, under the desk, at the picture on the wall in a helpless, bewildered way as if he thought his future course of action might be hiding some place in the neighborhood.
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” he said.
Carmel considered. Inexperienced as she was, new to the intrigues of Gibeon, she was able to perceive how the professor’s letter was loaded with dynamite—not for him, but for the paper which published it. Notwithstanding, it was her impulse to print it. Indeed, her mind was firmly made up to print it. Therefore she assumed an attitude of deliberation, as she had schooled herself to do.