Another matter worried Jose Quintana: he was not only short on provisions, but what remained was cached in Drowned Valley; and Mike Clinch and his men were guarding every outlet to that sinister region, excepting only the rocky and submerged trail by which he had made his exit. That was annoying; it cut off provisions and liquor from Canada, for which he had arranged with Jake Kloon. For Kloon's hootch-runners now would be stopped by Clinch; and not one among them knew about the rocky trail in. 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. No, 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 were anybody he might trust, a little way, it would be Sard. Then a polite, untroubled smile smoothed the pale, dark features of Jose Quintana: "Bien, messieurs, the coup has been success. Yes? Ver' well; in turn, then, en accord with our custom, I shall dispose myse'f to listen to your good advice." He looked at Henri Picquet, smiled and nodded invitation to speak. Picquet shrugged: "For me, mon capitaine, eet ees ver' simple. We are five. Therefore, divide into five ze gems. After zat, each one for himself to make his way out----" "Nick Salzar and Harry Beck are in the Drowned Valley," interrupted Quintana. Picquet shrugged again; Sanchez laughed, saying: "If they are there it is their misfortune. Also, we others are in a hurry." Picquet added: "Also five shares are sufficient division." "It is propose, then, that we abandon our comrades Beck and Salzar to the rifle of Mike Clinch?" "Why not?" demanded Georgiades sullenly;--"we shall have worse to face before we see the Place de l'Opera." "There remains, also, Eddie Abrams," remarked Quintana.