More was to come. Having taken up an unframed picture, she studied it for a space of seconds. Then, as her trembling fingers let the picture fall, her slender form stiffened and her face went white as she said in words that seemed to choke her:
“You can’t sell these things. You truly can’t.”
“Why can’t I?” Kay challenged. He had not looked into her white face.
“Because—” She put out a hand to steady herself. “Because they belong to a friend of mine. That is he,” she said, holding up the picture, “and that,” pointing to a signature at the bottom, “is his name.
“He—he came over on the boat with me. He—he was very, very kind to me. Helped me over the hard places.
“To sell out these would be a sacrilege.
“Sell them to me!” she pleaded, laying a hand on Kay’s arm. “I’ll pay you twice what you gave for them. Please, please do!” She was all but in tears.
She could not know the bargain she appeared anxious to drive. Only Weston and Kay King knew. They knew that in all their pinched and poverty-stricken lives they had never before made such a find; that the bags and their contents were worth not twice but ten times what Kay had paid for them.
And only Angelo, who had accidentally caught sight of her bankbook, knew that for the sake of a friend she had known only on a short voyage, she was willing to spend her all.
“Wha—what will you do with them?” Kay moistened dry lips.