Frobisher nodded thoughtfully. Benstein's wife was one of the stars of London. She kept a queue of young men in her box, but no faint breath of scandal touched her fair fame. Benstein was too old to run risks like that.
"We don't seem to be getting any further," Frobisher suggested.
"Indeed! The subtle play of your mind is not in evidence to-day, and perhaps the morning-coat has unsettled you. My friend, men tell their wives everything—everything."
"Not every man," Frobisher said, with one of his wicked grins. "I don't, for instance."
"If you did your wife wouldn't stay here for a day," Lopez said coolly. "Pshaw, I don't mean things of that kind; I mean business things, successful deals, how you have got the best of somebody else; in fact, the swaggering boasting that man indulges in before the woman of his choice. Not a single secret of that kind does Benstein keep from his wife—he couldn't if he wanted to."
"In other words, Mrs. Benstein has the secret that I would give a small fortune to possess?"
"Precisely. The game is in your own hands, mon ami. That woman is trying to get into society. And, with her natural audacity and the money she has behind her, she will succeed. In a year or so she will be turning her back upon women who won't look at her now. Only up to now she had got hold of the wrong leaders. But she is going to your Duchess's to-day. The Duke is in Benstein's hands."
"That's a good tip," Frobisher chuckled. "I'll get an introduction to her."
Lopez bent across the table and lowered his voice confidentially.
"Get Lady Frobisher to take her up," he said. "Quite as great ladies will be doing it before long. Mark my words, but Mrs. Benstein will be the fashion some day. Nothing will keep her out. If your wife holds out a helping hand—why, it seems to me that I shall have more than earned my money."