Tarboe was right. He had done what no one else had done—he had pierced the cloud surrounding Carnac: it was a woman.
“I hear you’re pulling things off here,” remarked Carnac civilly. “He says”—pointing to John Grier—“that you’re making the enemy squirm.”
Tarboe nodded, and a half-stealthy smile crept across his face. “I don’t think we’ve lost anything coming our way,” he replied. “We’ve had good luck—”
“And our eyes were open,” intervened John Grier. “You push the brush and use the chisel, don’t you?” asked Tarboe in spite of himself with slight scorn in his tone.
“I push the chisel and use the brush,” answered Carnac, smilingly correcting him.
“That’s a good thing. Is it yours?” asked Tarboe, nodding and pointing to the statue of the riverman. Carnac nodded. “Yes, I did that one day. I’d like to do you, if you’d let me.”
The young giant waved a brawny hand and laughed. He looked down at his knee-boots, with their muddied soles, and then at the statue again on the table. “I don’t mind you’re doing me. Turn about is fair play.
“I’ve done you out of your job.” Then he added to the old man: “It’s good news I’ve got. I’ve made the contract with the French firm at our price.”
“At our price!” remarked the other with a grim smile. “For the lot?”
“Yes, for the lot, and I’ve made the contracts with the ships to carry it.”