“You’re mad,” he said.
“She is the woman,” squeaked Ferreira, “and the man also is in Paris. I saw them together this morning at the Café Furnos! The man who was in Tangier, of whom I told the señor, and this woman, Sadie O’Grady!”
Brigot looked at the girl. She had been caught off her guard, and never once had the keen eyes of the lawyer left her. Given some warning, she might have dissembled and carried the matter through with a high hand. But the suddenness of the accusation, the amazingly unexpected vision of Jose, had thrown her off her guard, and Brigot did not need to look twice at her to know that the charges of his subordinate were justified. She was not a born conspirator, nor was she used to intrigues of this character.
Brigot gripped her by the arm and pulled her from the chair. He was half mad with rage and humiliation.
“What is the name of this man?” he hissed. “The name of the man who took you from Tangier and brought you here?”
She was white as death and terribly afraid.
“Benson,” she stammered.
“Benson!”
The lawyer and Brigot uttered the words together, and the Spaniard, releasing his hold stepped back.
“So it was Benson!” he said softly. “Our wonderful Englishman who wanted to swindle me out of my property, eh? And I suppose he sent you, my beautiful American widow, to purchase land for your villa! Now, you can go back to Mr. Benson and tell him that, if my property is good enough for him to buy, it is good enough for me to keep. You—you!”