T. B. asked no questions; he had none to ask; he did not demand how the man came by his wealth; he would not be guilty of such a crudity. He waited for the sailor to talk. At last he spoke.
"Monsieur," he said, "you wish to know where I got my money?"
T. B. said nothing.
"Honestly," said the sailor loudly, and with emphatic gesture; "honestly, monsieur;" and he went on earnestly, "By my way of reckoning, a man has a price."
"Undoubtedly," agreed T. B.
"A price for body and soul." The sailor blew a ring of smoke and watched it rising to the vaulted roof of the cell.
"Some men," continued the man, "in their calm moments set their value at twenty million dollars—only to sell themselves in the heat of a foolish moment for——" He snapped his fingers.
"I have never," thought T. B., "come into contact with so many philosophical criminals in my life."
"Yet I would beg you to believe," said the sailor, "it is a question of opportunity and need. There are moments when I would not risk my liberty for a million pesetas—there have been days when I would have sold my soul for ten mil-reis."
He paused again, for he had all the Latin's appreciation of an audience; all the Latin's desire for dramatic effect.