“That we can’t touch!” interrupted the cautious Gribber, shaking his head violently. “My faith, no, we cannot touch that! For it is certain that the lean years will come when our clients will require their dividends.”
Cartwright did not pursue the subject. There were other ways of financing his Moorish scheme.
The Benson Syndicate, for example.
He spoke eloquently of this new venture, which was to have its headquarters in Paris, and would be under the eye of his sceptical co-directors. He mentioned names glibly and easily—names that carried weight in the financial world. The three men agreed that the Benson Syndicate had the appearance of a safe investment.
More important was the business which brought Alfred Cartwright to the St. Lazaire Station to meet a passenger a week later.
She sprang from the train and looked round with doubting face, which lighted the moment she saw the saturnine Cartwright.
“My! I am relieved,” she said. “I was scared to think you wouldn’t be here to meet me, and I’d only got a few pounds left.”
“You got my wire?” he asked, and she smiled, showing two rows of pearly teeth.
“I’m still mystified,” she said. “What is it you want me to do in Paris?”