Don Anabel would take no chances with the loss or mutilation of his treasure. He credited Steven with a faculty for plotting that he did not possess. If it were himself, he would have arranged that the painting be out of reach of its owner; he could not have believed that it lay on a chest in the adjoining room. He inclined his head in consent. “_Muy bien_, since you put it that way. I myself will not oppose your trade here further, and I fancy the _jefe politico_ will not of his own accord. The painting?” Steven called the _criada_, who brought in from his bedchamber a roll of deerskin. Don Anabel seized it, unfastened the wrappings with trembling fingers, and unrolled the canvas, stretching it out before the candles that burned on the mantle. “The Murillo. Unharmed. _Gracias a Dios!_” Without another word Don Anabel, gesturing to his servant, rolled up the picture again, thrust it beneath his arm, and pulling his cloak tight about him, turned his back upon Steven and strode toward the door. The _moso_ threw upon the floor at Steven’s feet a sack that struck the boards with the unmistakable clink of _moneda_, Spanish duros, sesterces, and reales. Then Steven’s gorge rose and he shouted, “Stop!” with such suddenness and passion that Don Anabel paused in his tracks. Steven kicked the sack with a rage that shot it straight after the servant and hit him amidships in the rear with such violence that he staggered and plunged forward against the wall. “Hold!” yelled Steven. “Take your filthy silver out of here, Señor Don Anabel Lopez! I turned back on my way to Chihuahua, retracing my steps over mountain passes and through deserts, to return to you this painting, which I recognized as having seen in your house. I found the canvas on the dead body of a prelate, late of Albuquerque, where, señor, he told me, a night or so before his demise, he had acquired the canvas. “Believe this tale or not, as you like, but, by the saints, you shall make apology for the accusation of theft. Look nearer home for your crime. If you do not take back your words, I shall spread a tale in Santa Fe that will somewhat tarnish the luster of your honored name.” Steven stopped abruptly. He had not intended to say that. He had no proof that Luis was responsible for Bragdon’s death, though it was tacitly understood between Juan and himself that it was he who had dispatched the murderers on the Yankee’s trail. He had no proof that it was Luis who had stolen his father’s painting and gambled it away. A terrible silence had fallen upon the room. Don Anabel’s face grew old and drawn. He looked gaunt and thin and sick, as he stood there in his dark cloak, the candlelight throwing a heroic black silhouette against the whitewashed wall. Terrible suspicions had entered his mind. To what did the American refer? He was not sure.