All these matters were disquieting enough: but what really and most deeply troubled Quintana was his knowledge of his own men.
He did not trust one among them. Of international crookdom they were the cream. Not one of them but would have murdered his fellow if the loot were worth it and the chances of escape sufficient.
There was no loyalty to him, none to one another, no "honour among thieves" — and it was Jose Quintana who knew that only in romance such a thing existed.
N, he could not trust a single man. Only hope of plunder attached these marauders to him, and merely because he had education and imagination enough to provide what they wanted.
Anyone among them would murder and rob him if opportunity presented.
Now, how to keep his loot; how to get back to Europe with it, was the problem that confronted Quintana after robbing Darragh. And he determined to settle part of that question at once.
About five miles from Harrod Place, within a hundred rods of which he had held up Hal Smith, Quintana halted, seated himself on a rotting log, and waited until his men came up and gathered around him.
For a little while, in utter silence, his keen eyes travelled from one visage to the next, from Henri Picquet to Victor Georgiades, to Sanchez, to Sard. His intent scrutiny focussed on Sard; lingered.
If there was anybody he might trust, a little way, it would be Sard.
Then a polite, untroubled smile smoothed the pale, dark features of Jose
Quintana: