“Several years ago, when I was in New York, I remember meeting some woman with Mr. Krutzmacht at a hotel—a very handsome woman, from one of your Southern States, I judged by her accent. But,” he added hastily, “I have no reason to believe that she was his wife. It is probable that one might find out in San Francisco, where he lived the latter part of his life. I could not say.”
“So far as you know, there is no one interested in this deal?” Brainard persisted.
“The heirs will announce themselves soon enough, if there are any. Until then,” Herr Schneider remarked slyly, “we need not go into the question.”
The young American stared at the banker with honest, uncomprehending eyes.
“But that’s just what it is my business to do!” he exclaimed. “There was some one, I am sure, whom the old man tried to tell me about.”
“He was too far gone to say the whole name, but I think he had in mind some one whom he wanted to have his money. You see how it is, Herr Schneider. I am acting as this old fellow’s representative—his executor, so to speak—to take care of his property and hand it over to some one named Melody, or—”
“Melody?” inquired the banker, puzzled.
“Yes—that was what I made it out to be,” Brainard said, blushing.
“But that was the name of the Arizona mine.”