“For the property twenty thousand—for you ten thousand pounds,” suggested Cartwright, and the girl nodded.
“That’s got me,” she said. “Tell me what your plan is.”
“My plan is this,” said Cartwright. “You will appear to Señor Brigot—I will arrange that—as a wealthy young American lady who has been spending the winter in Morocco. His property follows a little wooded hill, one of the prettiest formations of its kind in the Angera country. You must rave about that hill, never cease speaking of its beauty and its attractiveness; and you must tell him that you would give anything in the world if you could build a house amidst that beautiful scenery—do you understand me?”
The girl nodded again.
“Brigot is a man somewhat susceptible to feminine charms,” Cartwright went on, “and, unless I am greatly mistaken, he will in one of his obliging moods, offer you the land at a nominal figure, particularly as he has been bitterly disappointed in his attempt to find gold.”
“I don’t like it,” said the girl after consideration. “You promised me that if I came to Paris you would get me a job in one of the theatres. That is what I am after, and the only thing I am fit for. The other business doesn’t seem decent——”
“Ten thousand pounds!” murmured Cartwright.
“It is a lot,” agreed the girl, “but how am I coming out of this business? I come out hopelessly compromised.”
Cartwright shrugged his shoulders with a deprecating smile.
“My dear girl——” he began.