[CHAPTER XXIII.]
Carlita stood there for some moments resembling nothing so much as some magnificent statue, her countenance just as stony, her face just as colorless, her form just as rigid. If she felt anything whatever—any emotion of horror, contempt, or triumph—there was no evidence of it—not even in the tones of her voice when she spoke at last.
"I have no objection to paying you for the proof which I shall demand that you furnish," she said, quietly; "but you must understand that it must be convincing—it must mean conviction. Accomplish this, and I will add ten thousand to the amount already agreed upon; fail, and you receive nothing beyond payment for your secret. Is this satisfactory?"
She must have been unobserving, indeed, not to have seen the greedy roll of his beady eyes, the miserly clutching of his grimy fingers, as if he already felt the beloved gold in his too affectionate clasp.
And yet he bowed almost coldly, in his absolute control over himself.
"I have no fear of failure, senorita. Get him back to Mexico, and leave the rest to me," he said, indifferently. "I shall not regret to see him suffer for his crime, but a man must look to his own interest first."
A slight shiver of repugnance and contempt passed over her, but vanished quickly in the utter apathy that seemed to possess her.
She interrupted him almost before he had completed his sentence.
"Until after the—the trial, I shall expect your time to be mine, your services constantly at my disposal. I shall expect you to remain in New York until I tell you to go to Mexico, and to give all information that may be required."