Cartwright shrugged his shoulders.
“Does it really matter?” he asked; “he’s in England, anyway.”
“Who is he?” She was curious.
“Oh, a friend of mine.”
“And who are you?” she asked, facing him squarely. “If I’m going to see anything of you in Paris, that Smith, Brown or Robinson business isn’t quite good enough. You’ve been decent to me, but I want to know who I’m working for, and what is the kind of work you want me to do.”
Cartwright pinched his neck—a nervous little trick of his when he was thinking.
“I have business interests here,” he said.
“You don’t want me for an office?” she asked suspiciously. “My education is perfectly rotten.”
He shook his head.
“No, I don’t want you for an office,” he replied with a smile. “And yet in a sense I want you to do office work. I have a little syndicate here, which is known as the Benson Syndicate. Benson is my name——”