and looked at his fair subordinate for approval. Nor was he destined to be disappointed. He was a bachelor in possession of a snug income, and she, besides being a pretty woman, was a lady with a decided eye to the main chance.
"And where is Cuyaba?" she asked humbly.
"Cuyaba," he replied, rolling his tongue with considerable relish round his unconscious mispronunciation of the name, "is a town almost on the western or Bolivian border of Brazil. It is of moderate size, is situated on the banks of the river Cuyaba, and is considerably connected with the famous Brazilian Diamond Fields."
"And does the writer of this letter live there?"
"I cannot say. He writes from there, that is enough for us."
"And he orders dinner for four—here, in a private room overlooking the river, three months ahead—punctually at eight o'clock, gives you a list of the things he wants, and even arranges the decoration of the table. Says he has never seen either of his three friends before, that one of them hails from (here she consulted the letter again) Hang-chow, another from Bloemfontein, while the third is, at present, in England. Each one is to present a plain visiting card with a red dot on it to the porter in the hall, and to be shown to the room at once. I don't understand it at all."
The manager paused for a moment and then said deliberately:
"Hang-chow is in China, Bloemfontein is in South Africa."
"What a wonderful man you are to be sure, Mr. McPherson! I never can think how you manage to carry so much in your head."
