“Sí, Señor. I was going by without knowing what was up, when I saw Pacheco fall. His brother jumped from his horse, leaned over the corpse, and said, weeping: ‘He is dead.’”
Quentin went into the street.
“If that fellow had the money in his pocket, there is no way of getting it. I’ll have to explain where it came from.... But if it is still at his house?—Cristo! I mustn’t waste any time.”
He reached the Gran Capitán in a hurry, and took a carriage. “To the Mosque,” he said, “and hurry.” The coachman left him at one of the doors of the cathedral.
“Wait for me,” Quentin instructed him, “I shall be some time.” He jumped from the carriage, went through the church, rushed like a cannon ball through the Patio de los Naranjos, went down by the Triunfo Column, crossed the bridge, and entered Pacheco’s house. He took out the key which Diagasio, the Mason, had made for him, and opened the door.
The bed was untouched; he looked through the little night stand, and found nothing; then he went to the table, took out his penknife and removed the lock from the drawer. Upon some books lay a Russian leather pocketbook, tied with a ribbon. He opened it; there were the bills. He did not count them.
“I am the favourite of Chance,” said he, smiling.
He closed the door, crossed the bridge, and threw the key into the river. The news evidently had not reached that part of the city, for the people were quiet, and there were no gossiping groups. Quentin went up by the Triunfo, again traversed the Patio de los Naranjos, then the church, and got into the carriage.
“To the Gran Capitán,” he said.
By this time the news was spread all over the city; the old wives were shouting it to each other from door to door, and from window to window.