“It is really the heat that has got the better of me,” she thought. “But how much worse for poor Katrina in that little burning-glass of a kitchen! I am ashamed of myself. I will, positively, never do so any more.”
The voices of her waiting visitors, at first subdued to the ordinary pitch of a stranger’s tones upon entering an unfamiliar place, here forced themselves upon her aural consciousness. The men were speaking in Spanish, and certainly not of the matters Olive was expected to hold in common interest with Ramirez.
“It is not the first time, Juan, that you have tempted me with ventures; and they have always come to nothing. I haven’t the money to spare, I tell you; and that’s flat.”
“There is no mistake this time, Ramirez. If I could only make you believe me! If you do not accept, I go to Señor Mores, who, when he knows the facts, will take me up quickly. Think of it! A beggarly sum in hand, we buy out the San Miguel stock from a man who does not know its value, and our fortunes are made forever.”
San Miguel stock! In a flash it came to Olive that her father was the chief owner of San Miguel stock.
“Why do you think I came to New York?” went on the eager speaker. “For the pleasure of that long, bone-breaking journey across the continent, eh? Or to pass a month in this city, where a poor man is ruined by charges if he demands to eat or drink? Why did I fasten myself to you to-day, and follow you here, when you showed no desire for my company? Because I wanted to get ahead of another man who will arrive to-morrow morning. Am I to fail because you, my oldest friend, will not help me to raise the money? It is not a ‘fake,’ as you call it in English. I swear to you that I speak the truth. San Miguel is up, up—on the top of the wave. In two days the newspapers will have the news of their rich find. Here is a telegram I received on arrival at my hotel, a few hours since. The secret was to be kept only till Latimer, the clever man of their syndicate, should have had time to reach New York and visit Mr. Foljambe.”
“Foljambe! Caramba! Hold your tongue!” hissed Ramirez.
There was a sudden hush. The conversation passed into whispers. Olive, trembling with excitement, slipped back into her bedroom, put on her hat, seized gloves and parasol, and darted out to the rear of the flat to interview Katrina.
“I cannot receive those men now, Katrina,” said the young lady, breathlessly. “Give me full time to get out of their way, and then—but not until they call you—tell them I am not at home.”