The lawyer spread out despairing hands.
“Then there is nothing to be done,” he said. “I only tell you that you are transferring a valuable property to a lady who is comparatively unknown to you, and it seems to me a very indiscreet and reckless thing to do.”
They returned again to the outer apartment, where the girl had been standing nervously twisting the moiré bag in her hand.
“Here is the document, madame,” said the lawyer to her relief. “Señor Brigot will sign here”—he indicated a line—“and you will sign there. I will cause these signatures to be witnessed, and a copy of the document will be forwarded for registration.”
The girl sat down at the table, and her hand shook as she took up the pen. It was at that moment that Jose Ferreira dashed into the room.
He stood open-mouthed at sight of the girl at the table. He tried to speak, but the sound died in his throat. Then he strode forward, under the glaring eye of his employer.
“This woman—this woman!” he gasped.
“Ferreira,” cried Brigot in a terrible voice, “you are speaking of a lady who is my friend!”
“She—she”—the man pointed to her with shaking finger—“she is the woman! She escaped! . . . The woman I told you of, who ran away with an Englishman from Tangier!”
Brigot stared from one to the other.