“You are expecting some money to come in; but are you sure of it?” asked Petit-Claud, astonished at the way in which his client walked into the toils.
“In three months’ time I shall have plenty of money,” said the inventor, with an inventor’s hopeful confidence.
“Your father is still above ground,” suggested Petit-Claud; “he is in no hurry to leave his vines.”
“Do you think that I am counting on my father’s death?” returned David. “I am on the track of a trade secret, the secret of making a sheet of paper as strong as Dutch paper, without a thread of cotton in it, and at a cost of fifty per cent less than cotton pulp.”
“There is a fortune in that!” exclaimed Petit-Claud. He knew now what the tall Cointet meant.
“A large fortune, my friend, for in ten years’ time the demand for paper will be ten times larger than it is to-day. Journalism will be the craze of our day.”
“Nobody knows your secret?”
“Nobody except my wife.”
“You have not told any one what you mean to do—the Cointets, for example?”
“I did say something about it, but in general terms, I think.”