“Sentimentalist, sentimentalist,” Decoud almost cooed, in a tone of gentle and soothing deference. “Sentimentalist, after the amazing manner of your people. I have been watching El Rey de Sulaco since I came here on a fool’s errand, and perhaps impelled by some treason of fate lurking behind the unaccountable turns of a man’s life. But I don’t matter, I am not a sentimentalist, I cannot endow my personal desires with a shining robe of silk and jewels. Life is not for me a moral romance derived from the tradition of a pretty fairy tale. No, Mrs. Gould; I am practical. I am not afraid of my motives. But, pardon me, I have been rather carried away. What I wish to say is that I have been observing. I won’t tell you what I have discovered--” “No. That is unnecessary,” whispered Mrs. Gould, once more averting her head. “It is. Except one little fact, that your husband does not like me. It’s a small matter, which, in the circumstances, seems to acquire a perfectly ridiculous importance. Ridiculous and immense; for, clearly, money is required for my plan,” he reflected; then added, meaningly, “and we have two sentimentalists to deal with.” “I don’t know that I understand you, Don Martin,” said Mrs. Gould, coldly, preserving the low key of their conversation. “But, speaking as if I did, who is the other?” “The great Holroyd in San Francisco, of course,” Decoud whispered, lightly. “I think you understand me very well. Women are idealists; but then they are so perspicacious.” But whatever was the reason of that remark, disparaging and complimentary at the same time, Mrs. Gould seemed not to pay attention to it. The name of Holroyd had given a new tone to her anxiety. “The silver escort is coming down to the harbour tomorrow; a whole six months’ working, Don Martin!” she cried in dismay. “Let it come down, then,” breathed out Decoud, earnestly, almost into her ear. “But if the rumour should get about, and especially if it turned out true, troubles might break out in the town,” objected Mrs. Gould. Decoud admitted that it was possible. He knew well the town children of the Sulaco Campo: sullen, thievish, vindictive, and bloodthirsty, whatever great qualities their brothers of the plain might have had. But then there was that other sentimentalist, who attached a strangely idealistic meaning to concrete facts. This stream of silver must be kept flowing north to return in the form of financial backing from the great house of Holroyd. Up at the mountain in the strong room of the mine the silver bars were worth less for his purpose than so much lead, from which at least bullets may be run. Let it come down to the harbour, ready for shipment. The next north-going steamer would carry it off for the very salvation of the San Tome mine, which had produced so much treasure. And, moreover, the rumour was probably false, he remarked, with much conviction in his hurried tone.