“For the money that you think is already yours,” he said, a trifle sulkily. Matters were becoming complicated.
“Money!” cried the amazing chorus girl, “I hate it!”
His face cleared.
“If that’s the case,” he said genially, “we shall not quarrel. Frankly, Miss Grandcourt, I love it.”
She glanced at him through tear-beaded lashes.
“I suppose you’ve always thought of a show girl as a scheming adventuress always on the lookout for some foolish, rich old man or else some silly boy with millions to spend.”
“But you have,” she contradicted, “I can tell by your manner. For my part I have always thought of burglars as brutal, low-browed men without chivalry or courtesy. I’ve been wrong too. I imagined the gentleman-crook was only a fiction and now I find him a fact. Will you please tell me what you’ve heard about me. I’m not fishing for compliments. I want, really and truly, to know.”
Trent hesitated a moment. He thought, as he looked at her, that never had he seen a sweeter face. She was wholly in earnest.
“Please, please,” she entreated.