Rosamund’s dark eyes narrowed to two tiny slits. If Figuero could really keep Warden and Evelyn apart during so long a period, the utterly hopeless project on which she had embarked in a moment of jealous rage might become feasible. Of course, the suggestion that he would marry Evelyn was preposterous, but there was no reason why she should hurt his pride by telling him so. Her heart throbbed madly, while her active brain debated the pros and cons of the all–important question—should she post the letter already written? Yes. It was the outcome of her earliest thought. She would follow it up with another in different strain. The two would be vastly more convincing than one, and the dates would have a significance that no mere contriving could impart.
By this time they were at the post–office, from which mails were dispatched by a later train than that caught by the groom. Rosamund dropped her letter in the box. She was quite pale with suppressed excitement. Her boats were burnt. She heard the fall of the envelope into the receptacle, and the appalling notion possessed her that the sound resembled the fall of earth on a coffin. She breathed heavily, and pressed a hand to her bosom. Figuero was watching her.
“Now you done dem t’ing,” he said, “you dash me some money.”
She started. Did he mean to levy blackmail for his services?
“Why?” she asked, summoning all her strength of character to meet his gaze without flinching.
“Me buy present for dem girl. If I make wife palaver dat cost many dollar.”
“I am not buying your help. You trade with me one thing for the other. If you refuse, I write to the Government about the men of Oku.”
The Portuguese laughed more naturally than she had yet heard him. If his arch–enemy, Arthur Warden, was well acquainted with the mission he and the chiefs had undertaken, this pretty and passionate woman counted for very little in the scale against him.
“You dash me one hunner’ poun’,” he said cheerfully. “Jus’ dat, no mo’. If you say ‘no,’ dem girl no lib for yacht. Mr. Baumgartner say go one–time. Me tell ‘im take dem girl—savvy?”
Mrs. Laing savvied. She gave him thirty pounds—all she could spare from her purse—and promised to send the balance to an address in London. He was fully satisfied. He was sure she would not fail him. When he needed further supplies she would pay willingly. In an intrigue based on such lines Miguel Figuero was an adept.