“She will follow me to Argentina, Excellency; and, Madre de Dios, we shall get married.”
At this moment the waiter came up, cigarette in mouth, after the manner of Spain, and suggested a second cup of coffee, to which Cartoner assented—with plenty of sugar.
“Have you money?” asked Cartoner, when they were alone again.
“No, Senor.”
“In this world it is no use being a criminal unless you are rich. If you are poor you must be honest. That is the first rule of the game.”
“I am as poor as a street-dog,” said the voice, unconcernedly.
“And you would not take a loan as from one gentleman to another?”
“No,” answered Spanish pride, crouching in the bushes, “I could not do that.”
Cartoner reflected for some moments. “In the country from which I come,” he said at length, “we have a very laudable reverence for relics and a very delicate taste in such matters. If one man shoots another we like to see the gun, and we pay sixty centimes to look upon it. There are people who make an honest living by such exhibitions. If they cannot get the gun they put another in its place, and it is all the same. Now, your knife—the one the Senorita sharpens with a kiss—in my country it will have its value. Suppose I buy it; suppose we say five hundred pesetas?”
And Cartoner's voice was the voice of innocence.