"Oh, yes, I s'pose so," she said hopelessly. "I'm let alone, and—I get good food. It—it isn't that."
"What is it?"
The man's question came sharply.
Hazel turned her face to the hills and sighed. The movement was well calculated.
"It's my folks." Then, with a dramatic touch, "Say, Mr. Carbhoy, do you guess we'll ever—get out of this? Do you think we'll get back to our folks? Sometimes I—oh, it's awful!"
Her words carried conviction, and the man was taken in.
"Say," he said quickly, "I'm making a big guess we'll get out later—when things are fixed. This is not a ransom. But it means—dollars."
He lit his cigar, and its aroma pleasantly scented the air.
Hazel sighed with intense feeling—to disguise her inclination to laugh.
"Yes, sir," she said hopelessly. "One hundred thousand dollars."