“I hold it necessary,” continued Cuchillo, flattered at the compliment, “to prove that men own such a susceptible conscience as mine; here then are the facts—My friend Tio Tomas had a nephew impatient to inherit his uncle’s fortune; I received a hundred dollars from the nephew to hasten the moment of his inheritance. It was very little for such a capital will.
“It was so little that I gave Tio Tomas warning, and received two hundred dollars to prevent his nephew becoming his heir. I committed a fault in—despatching the nephew without giving him warning, as I ought to have done, perhaps. It was then I felt how inconvenient a quarrelsome conscience like mine may become. I seized upon the only means of composition which was left me. The nephew’s money was a continual remorse to me, and I resolved to get rid of it.”
“Of the money?”
“Not so.”
“And you despatched the uncle as well?” cried Pepé.
Cuchillo assented.
“From that time my conscience had but little to reproach me with. I had gained three hundred dollars by the most ingenious integrity.”
Cuchillo was yet smiling, when Fabian exclaimed—
“Were you paid for assassinating Marcos Arellanos?”
At this astounding accusation a livid paleness overspread Cuchillo’s features.