He folded his arms and leaned back austerely. Carlota forced herself to keep silent before Ward. He moved, shifting his position so that he might see her better. She had drawn the velvet monk’s hood over her head, but every arc light they passed threw a flashing radiance into the car and showed him her pure, beautiful profile, delicately Roman, and the glamour of her near presence unnerved him.
“And those jewels which you have not the sense to value!” burst forth Jacobelli again. “I shall warn the Marchese to act at once as your guardian and place them in the safety-deposit vault. You shall not have them to play with.”
“I do not want them in the vault. I shall sell them and pay you and Mr. Ward for everything and return to Italy with Maria.”
“To Italy!” repeated Jacobelli dryly. “Ben trovato! With this boy here.”
Ward looked with musing eyes at the bag beside the maestro.
“When you are ready to dispose of them,” he said deliberately, “come to me. I did not know you were in possession of these, but I have heard of the rubies. I collect rare jewels. The Zarathustra would be brought to me by dealers ultimately, and I prefer to pay you the full price if you wish to part with it.”
“I will remember,” Carlota said clearly, meeting his eyes for the first time.
They left him at the Fifth Avenue entrance to his club. He made no further allusion to the rubies, and Carlota forgot them in listening to Jacobelli’s flood of argument until they reached the apartment. She would throw up her career after all they had done for her, merely in a fit of pique because they objected to her throwing herself away. The Marchese and Maria had not returned.
“I shall not trust you,” declared Jacobelli. “I shall guard you until they come back.”
Carlota faced him suddenly, in the small vestibule, her eyes brilliant with resentment and pride.