“Doubtless,” said Foy, angrily, “upon such honour as gentlemen learn in the galleys, Señor Ramiro—I beg your pardon, Count Juan de Montalvo.” Ramiro’s face grew crimson to the hair. “Sir,” he said, “were I a different sort of man, for those words you should die in a fashion from which even the boldest might shrink. But you are young and inexperienced, so I will overlook them. Now this bargaining must come to a head. Which will you have, life and safety, or the chance—which under the circumstances is no chance at all—that one day, not you, of course, but somebody interested in it, may recover a hoard of money and jewels?” Then Martin spoke for the first time, very slowly and respectfully. “Worshipful sir,” he said, “we cannot tell you where the money is because we do not know. To be frank with you, nobody ever knew except myself. I took the stuff and sank it in the water in a narrow channel between two islands, and I made a little drawing of them on a piece of paper.” “Exactly, my good friend, and where is that piece of paper?” “Alas! sir, when I was lighting the fuses on board the _Swallow_, I let it fall in my haste, and it is—in exactly the same place as are all your worship’s worthy comrades who were on board that ship. I believe, however, that if you will put yourself under my guidance I could show your Excellency the spot, and this, as I do not want to be killed, I should be most happy to do.” “Good, simple man,” said Ramiro with a little laugh, “how charming is the prospect that you paint of a midnight row with you upon those lonely waters; the tarantula and the butterfly arm in arm! Mynheer van Goorl, what have you to say?” “Only that the story told by Martin here is true. I do not know where the money is, as I was not present at its sinking, and the paper has been lost.” “Indeed? I am afraid, then, that it will be necessary for me to refresh your memory, but, first, I have one more argument, or rather two. Has it struck you that another life may hang upon your answer? As a rule men are loth to send their fathers to death.” Foy heard, and terrible as was the hint, yet it came to him as a relief, for he had feared lest he was about to say “your mother” or “Elsa Brant.” “That is my first argument, a good one, I think, but I have—another which may appeal even more forcibly to a young man and prospective heir. The day before yesterday you became engaged to Elsa Brant—don’t look surprised; people in my position have long ears, and you needn’t be frightened, the young lady will not be brought here; she is too valuable.” “Be so good as to speak plainly,” said Foy.