"He's been in Chicago."
"How do you know?"
Brockton held out the newspaper.
"Here's a dispatch about him."
She came quickly forward and looked over the broker's shoulder. Her voice was trembling with suppressed excitement, as she said:
"What—where—what's it about?"
Brockton chuckled. Holding out the paper so she could see, and watching her face closely, he went on:
"I'm damned if he hasn't done what he said he'd do—see! He's been in Chicago, and is on his way to New York. He's struck it rich in Nevada, and is coming with a pot of money. Queer, isn't it? Did you know anything about it?"
"No, no; nothing at all," she said, laying the paper aside and returning to her former place near the piano. Her face was drawn and white, and there was a hard, metallic note perceptible in her voice.
"Lucky for him, eh?" said the broker.