Now you'd thought that would have satisfied him, wouldn't you? But he acted like he'd got a half-arm jolt on the wind. He backed off and cooled down as if I'd chucked a pail of water over him.
"Well," says I, "you don't want it in writin', do you? I'm just out of permit blanks, and me secretary's laid up with a bad case of McGrawitis. If I was you, I'd skip back and keep my eye on Sadie. She might change her mind."
The Baron thought he'd seen a red flag, though. He put in a worry period that lasted while you could count fifty. Then he forks out his trouble.
"It is not possible that I have mistake, is it?" says he. "I am learn that Madam Deepworth is—what you call—one heiress? No?"
See? I'd been sort of lookin' for that; and there it was, as plain as a real-estate map of Gates of Paradise, Long Island. Me bein' so free and easy with tellin' him to help himself had thrown up a horrible suspicion to him. Was it true that Sadie's roll was real money, the kind you could spend at the store? And say, long's it was up to me to write her prospectus, I thought I might as well make it a good one.
"Do you see that movin'-van out there?" says I.
The Baron saw it.
"And have you been introduced to these?" I says, flashin' a big, wrist-size wad of tens and fives.
Oh, he was acquainted all right.
"Well," says I, "Sadie's got enough of these put away to fill two carts like that."