“What will they do with us?” she asked Arthur quite simply. “Will we get the same as those men?”
“Do you mean your brothers?”
She glanced behind her with an air of superb disdain.
“Brothers?” she echoed, with much scorn. “Those fellows our brothers? No. And we aren’t sisters, either, or daughters to that old woman. We’re each on our own. And there’s no credit in owning it, as I guess you folks know all about us, as much as we know ourselves.”
Arthur was astounded.
She smiled at him scornfully.
“Well, we’ve had a good time!” she said at last, in a half-regretful tone. “You Britishers are mighty easy to gull, aren’t you? One has only got to call oneself a millionaire, to speak with an accent that wouldn’t be tolerated on our side, and to give one’s address as Chicago, and the best of you are ready to open your arms—and your pockets. So, if you’re taken in now and then, it’s not surprising.”
“Then—aren’t you—anything to do with—the millionaire?” gasped Arthur.
“Just wish we were!” replied Delia simply; “no such luck. We’re just a mixed lot of adventurers and adventuresses, making a common cause to ease the pockets of your silly society folk, and to get ourselves a pleasant time. If it had only lasted a little longer,” she added, with a sigh, “we’d each have landed a stockbroker or one of your wooden-headed baronets, and then we’d have been fixed up to rights!”
Arthur turned slowly to look at Cora. She had dried her eyes, and was sitting rather disconsolately on the sofa, while the constables who had charge of both these younger ladies remained at a moderate distance, satisfied that they had them both under observation.