“Of course. But to part them will be quite easy. Leave all that to me.”
There was a pause.
“And you will desert me for that slip of a girl—eh, Gordon?” asked the handsome woman suddenly in a strange, unusual voice.
He started. He had never realised that the woman’s jealousy had been aroused, but, nevertheless, he knew that a jealous woman always constitutes a danger when one sails near the wind.
“Oh! my dear Freda, please don’t talk like that,” he laughed. “Surely ours is a business connexion. Your interests are mine, and vice versa. Have they not been so for five years? You have kept your eyes open for the pigeons, while I have plucked them for you and given you half share of the spoil.”
“And now you contemplate deserting me—and perhaps marrying the daughter of a wealthy man. Where do I come in?”
“As you always have done, my dear Freda. Both of us are out for money—and big money we must get from somewhere. That concession in Morocco is my main object at the present moment. We already have the plan, and Barclay has not yet discovered his loss.”
“He may do so at any moment. What then?”
“Why, nothing. He will have no suspicion as to who has secured it or how it was taken from his safe. Besides, the old Moor is arriving at the Ritz and is bringing the actual signed concession over from Fez. And now that the parson is dead all will be plain sailing. Have you heard from Arthur to-day?”
“Not a word. He should be back from Bayeux in a couple of days.”