“It is queer,” mused the girl, looking at him thoughtfully, “that I never meet any of your friends in Paris, and that nobody knows you—by name. I went down to your flat on the Avenue of the Grand Army,” she confessed frankly, “and asked the concierge. You’re Benson there too.”
Cartwright chuckled.
“In my business,” he said, “it is necessary that one should be discreet. The name which goes in London is not good enough for Paris. And vice versa,” he added.
“You’re a strange man. I suppose if you marry me in the name of Benson it will be legal?” she asked dubiously.
“Of course it will be legal. I’m surprised at a girl of your intelligence asking such a question,” said Cartwright. “What is the programme for to-night?”
She pulled a little face.
“The Marigny and supper at Corbets—supper in a private dining-room.”
He nodded.
“So it’s come to that, has it? Well, you ought to make good to-night, Sadie. Remember, I am willing to pay up to fifty thousand pounds. It is going to be a tough job raising that money, and it will break my heart to pay it. But it will not only break my heart, but it will break me everlastingly and confoundedly to pay the man’s own price—and his property must be bought.”
“I’ll do my best,” said the girl, “but you have no doubt in your mind that it is going to be hard.”