“You’ve put up fifty thousand in actual cash?” Trent demanded.
“That’s what I capitalize my knowledge of pictures at,” Weiller explained.
“George is one of the best known producers in the game,” Miss Thompson said, a trifle nettled at what she thought was a smile of contempt on the other’s face. “He don’t need your money. I’ve got enough in this bag right here to produce it.” She waived a black moiré bag before Trent’s eyes.
George Weiller looked at her and frowned. What a foolish project, he thought, to spend one’s own money when here was a victim.
“You keep that, little one,” he said generously. “We’re gentlemen; we don’t want to take a lady’s money. We’ll talk it over later.”
A keen salesman, he noted Trent was growing restive. If the matter were persisted in he might either take a fright or take offence. All this he explained later. “You see, Norah,” he remarked, “that guy has a chin on him that means you can’t drive him.”
“He’s got a cold, nasty eye,” said Norah who was not without her just fears of strangers.
“I’m going to play the game so he’ll beg me to let him in on it,” Weiller boasted. “I know the way to play that sort of bird.”
The negotiations resulted in Trent’s seeing a great deal more of this precious couple than he cared for. The “anjenou” finding her charms made no impression on him was rarely included in the little dinners and excursions.
It was when Trent had met Miss Thompson a dozen times that he consulted the notes he had made on each occasion. It was a method of working unique so far as he could learn. It might yield no results in a thousand cases. In the thousand and first it might be the clue. It was nothing more than a list of the costumes he had seen the ex-nurse wear.