She could articulate no longer. Her words trailed off into incoherency. The long strain had been too much for her. For the first time in her life, Olive fainted dead away.
Juan and Ramirez knew their game was up—knew it before a message came to them from the room where Mr. Foljambe was occupied in restoring his daughter to consciousness, where Mr. Whitwell, summoned to come in, was explaining the circumstances of his encounter with the little heroine.
For the visit and proposition of Mr. Latimer, which occurred the morning following that of Ramirez and his friend, Mr. Foljambe was sufficiently prepared. Latimer’s surprise when his offer to buy was declined outright, as was also his rapid increase of the amount first suggested as a fair equivalent for worthless stock, all this is written on the tablets of Martin Foljambe’s memory. He will probably never cease chuckling over it as a pendant to his daughter’s clever interference.
Olive went on with the Rushmore memorial (which in due time appeared in print, with great credit to the editor) until her father, coming in one unbearably hot evening, gave her the welcome tidings that San Miguel had set him on his feet again.
“We shall be rich again, my girl, thanks to your grit and common-sense,” he added, bending over the sofa, where she reclined, rather languid and overdone and trembling with excitement. “And about the first use I shall make of spare funds will be to set up you and Stephen. I take it, from what your mother writes, Lilian will marry that Captain Ramsdell. I don’t care a hang about his being next in succession to a baronet, but I do like his asking her when he thought she had lost her money.”
“The bell!” cried Olive, springing to her feet as the welcome annunciator sounded. “Glad as I am of your splendid news, papa, I am gladder still that to-night has brought Stephen back.”
“I had quite forgotten that little circumstance,” remarked Martin, as she flew by him like a whirlwind to meet her lover in the hall.
THE STOLEN STRADIVARIUS