She beamed gratefully upon him.  “Need any money, Bill, old timer?” she flashed at him suddenly, with delightful camaraderie.

“There should be no secrets between partners.  I do.”

“Quanto?”

“Cinquenta mille pesos oro, senorita.”

“Help!”

“Fifty thousand bucks, iron men, simoleons, smackers, dollars—­”

She reached down and removed a fountain pen from his upper vest pocket.  Then she drew a check book and, crooking her knee over Panchito’s neck and using that knee for a desk, she wrote him a check on a New York bank for fifty thousand dollars.

“See here,” Bill Conway demanded, as she handed him the check, “how much of a roll you got, young woman?”

“About two hundred thousand in cash and half a million in Liberty bonds.  When I was about five years old my uncle died and left me his estate, worth about a hundred thousand.  It has grown under my father’s management.  He invested heavily in Steel Common, at the outbreak of the war, and sold at the top of the market just before the armistice was signed.”

“Well,” Conway sighed, “there is a little justice in the world, after all.  Here at last, is one instance where the right person to handle money gets her hands on a sizable wad of it.  But what I want to know, my dear young lady, is this:  Why purchase philanthropy in fifty thousand dollar installments?  If you want to set that boy’s mind at ease, loan him three hundred thousand dollars to take up the mortgage your father holds on his ranch; then take a new mortgage in your own name to secure the loan.  If you’re bound to save him in the long run, why keep the poor devil in suspense?”

She made a little moue of distaste.  “I loathe business.  The loaning of money on security—­the taking advantage of another’s distress.  Mr. Bill, it never made a hit with me.  I’m doing this merely because I realize that my father’s course, while strictly legal, is not kind.  I refuse to permit him to do that sort of thing to a Medal of Honor man.”  He noticed a pretty flush mount to her lovely cheeks.  “It isn’t sporty, Mr. Bill Conway.  However, it isn’t nice to tell one’s otherwise lovable father that he’s a poor sport and a Shylock, is it?  I cannot deliberately pick a fight with my father by interfering in his business affairs, can I?  Also, it seems to me that Don Mike Farrel’s pride is too high to permit of his acceptance of a woman’s pity.  I do not wish him to be under obligation to me.  He might misconstrue my motive—­oh, you understand, don’t you?  I’m sure I’m in an extremely delicate position.”

He nodded sagely.  “Nevertheless,” he pursued, “he will be under obligation to you.”

“He will never know it.  I depend upon you to keep my secret.  He will think himself under obligation to you—­and you’re such an old and dear friend.  Men accept obligations from each other and think nothing of it.  By the way, I hold you responsible for the return of that fifty thousand dollars, not Don Mike Farrel.  You are underwriting his battle with my father, are you not?”