"I shall owe you twelve thousand," said he, handing over all that he had.
Don Alfonso took it and thrust it into his pocket angrily. The game was over. The banker, mopping the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief, went over to the Andalusian, who had taken his seat on a sofa, and was calmly reading a newspaper.
"You have fifteen thousand duros in your pocket, my boy."
"I don't know," replied Don Alfonso, without looking up.
"But I know: Villar and Gonzalez lost nine thousand, and we more than twelve thousand. All the rest put together did not take six thousand."
"Pish! it is quite possible," replied the caballero.
"Any one to see your face would say that what you carried in your pocket was fifteen thousand stones. See here, lend me thirty thousand reals, and that will put you in good humor."
Don Alfonso, without saying a word, took out his pocket-book, and gave him a handful of bills.
"Saavedra, you are on the downward track. The other evening I saw you in a box at the theatre making love to a mighty pretty girl. Be careful! on the day least expected you will be getting married."
Don Alfonso took out his watch, and, after looking at it, smiled coldly, saying:—