“As a reward?”
“My dear man, everybody has to live,” replied the marquis. “I don’t know what he did in the Philippines, but he was in court several times, and when he was free they gave him a position in Cuba.”
“They wanted him to make a study of the Spanish colonial régime,” suggested the youth.
“Doubtless. He got into a few scrapes over there, too, until he returned and went into the money-lending business. They say now that he is worth not less than a million pesetas.”
“The deuce, he is!”
“He’s a serious, modest fellow. Up to a few years ago he lived with a certain Paca, who was the proprietress of a dyer’s shop on the Calle de Hortaleza, and on Sundays they’d both go out to the suburbs like a poor couple. This Paca died, and now he lives alone. He’s shy and humble; many a time he himself goes out and does the buying, and then cooks his own meal. His old secretary is a really interesting chap. When it comes to forgery he can’t be beaten.”
Manuel listened most attentively.
“That’s what you really can call a man,” said the marquis, eyeing the secretary closely.
The man they were watching,—a person with a red, pointed beard and a mocking air, turned around and saluted the speaker affably.