“We shall date them,—and sign them,—in our extremity,” said Zimmerlein, going to a safe which stood invitingly open in a corner of the room. He removed a small but important-looking package of papers and tossed them carelessly on the table. “Such as a visit from on high,” he added, with a smile.
“Yes,” said Riaz, and sat down again, frowning.
“We shall never be caught napping. Here are the papers, as they would say in the melodrama. By the way, do you go in for melodrama in Rio? Or are you above that form of amusement?”
Riaz remained unsmiling. “It is not as popular with us as it is with you Americans,” said he. “We see through it too readily.”
Zimmerlein unfolded and spread out several of the documents. “There!” he said. “Let him come who will. Under the sharpest eyes in America you may transfer property valued at ten millions, and no one will question the validity of the transaction. You see, my dear Riaz, you do own these mines and they are exactly what they are represented to Be. To save their lives, they can't go behind the facts. And the purchasers are prepared to hand over the cash at any moment. Could anything be simpler?”
“Nothing,” said the Brazilian, sententiously,—“except the damned little slip that sometimes comes between the cup and the lip.”
“Ah, but our cup is always at the lip,” said Zimmerlein buoyantly. “Don't be a kill-joy, old chap.”
“All well and good, Zimmerlein, unless some one's lip splits.” He shot an uneasy glance into the drafting-room.
“This is the most perfect machine in the world, Riaz. Have no fear. Every cog has been tested and is of the staunchest steel. Every part has been put in its proper place by the greatest genius alive.”
“I don't have to remind you that a few cogs in the Foreign office have slipped badly.”