“I would like you to keep a large amount of money for me,” continued Quentin as he held out the pocketbook.
“How much is it?”
“I don’t know, I’m going to see.”
Quentin opened the purse and began counting the bills.
“Before you place this trust in me,” said the Swiss with the air of a man making a violent decision, “I have something to tell you—as a loyal friend. Something that may annoy you.”
“What is it?” asked Quentin, fearing that the low trick he had played on the Count of Doña Mencia had become known in the city.
“María Lucena and I have come to an understanding—I cannot deceive a true friend like you....”
Quentin gazed in astonishment at the Swiss, and seeing him so affected, felt like bursting into laughter; but laughter seemed improper under the circumstances.
“I’m glad you told me,” he said gravely. “I was thinking of leaving Cordova, and now, knowing this, I shall go as soon as possible.”
“And it will not cool your friendship?”