"Men? Men are only in the way. They have no money."
"And the King? Will he be taken?"
"He will not be there," and Mr. Bugbee drew close to the Beauty again.
"Where will he be?" she asked.
"Here—with you! You will save him by detaining him."
She sat still, and looked at him with a steady stare. She knew quite well what purpose the old banker had in mind, and what she had come there for. But she meant to play her own game, not Bugbee's.
Her own game was to get the old King under her own influence, whether he went to reign in Windsor or to rust in America. She knew his character well, and she had little doubt of her power if she could only get the reins. From that position she knew enough, too, to overcome all scruples of conscience in the King's conscientious banker.
Bugbee was playing against two possible results—the success of the King or his death. Either was ruin for him. Investigation would follow, whether George were a king or a corpse. So long as he remained in exile the Republicans would never attempt to confiscate the private fortune of the banished monarch; while, on the other hand, the royal exile would not venture to appeal to the courts against his banker, thereby exposing his enormous wealth to the cupidity of the Republicans.
"You have gone too far," said Mrs. Carey, steadily looking at the banker; "I shall do nothing of the kind. My reputation—"
"Shall be quite safe — your husband being at Nice," and old Bugbee's was the guileless face now.
