"I should prefer bank-notes," she said gently.
Smith appeared to hesitate. "Very well," he replied finally. "But, in that case, you must wait until to-morrow. If your information is good—the check will be also."
She took it from his hand, and he rose.
"Ver' good, Señor Smit'," she replied, looking up at him with an engaging smile. "I will trust you." She fingered the paper absently.
Smith looked down at her. Something, he knew, she had left untold, and he waited.
"One small thing I had almost forgot," she murmured pensively. "Count Poltavo leaves for—Lolo—to-night."
Catherine Dominguez had not lied. Perhaps she had some secret grudge against the Nine, whose faithful agent she had been, or perhaps she was tired of obscure flittings, and wished to buy indemnity by confession. The detective never knew.
Nevertheless, he felt grateful to her.
* * * * * * *
That night, a slender man, wearing a felt hat and a cappa, descended the steps of one of the villas of the Marshan, and walked through the garden.