He followed her into this attractive room, its walls lined with books. Here and there were cosy alcoves and recesses, with leather-covered easy-chairs that might have graced a metropolitan club. A very solid table of carved oak occupied the centre of the room, and beside this the girl came to a stand, while he glanced around him in admiration.
“I never had much time for reading,” he said, “and I do envy you this room. My own library is small, consisting mainly of books by friends of mine who kindly presented me with some of their writings.”
“Then I wish you to accept a specimen of my works. My writings may not be very literary, but they are concise and to the point.”
Here she placed a slip of paper before him, and glancing at it he saw it was a cheque for ten millions. Then he looked up at her, a slow smile coming to his lips, and shook his head.
“Princess, this is for the savage, not for me. The savage is dead.”
“You are his heir, remember.”
“No, we are too far removed from each other, the savage and I. Remember the centuries between us, and less than ten years outlaws all claim.”
“You must accept it. It is mere transference, as you quite rightly pointed out. It does not belong to me, but to you.”
The young woman spoke with tense eagerness, and the former frown came into her brow before she had finished. He picked up the cheque.
“That’s right,” she said, with a sigh of relief; but the smile broadened on his face as he slowly tore the signature from the cheque and placed her autograph in his pocket-book.