Keith would make himself responsible for a similar sum,
or even a thousandth part of it.
"Half a million francs--what's that, Duchess, as the price of a smile
from yourself? Cheap. Dirt cheap!"
"Another one?" queried the lady.
"Well, just one. I can't swallow any more. But I can still chew."
So fatuously fond was he of this particular variety of condiment that,
on their account alone, he would have imported the Duchess and her
entire establishment into America. For all that, old Koppen was no
fool. Half a million buttered tea-cakes could not impair the lively
workings of a brain which had long ago mapped out a swift and sure path
to worldly success. He had wind of this project; his answer was
carefully prepared. It was a mathematical certainty that not one cent
of those half-million francs would ever leave his pocket. For he knew
what the Committee did not know--the real character of his friend Keith.
Keith was a good fellow but a hopeless crank; Keith was perfectly
capable of impoverishing himself in order to keep Miss Wilberforce out
of prison.
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