T. B. took his gold case from an inside pocket and opened it. "Many thanks," said the sailor, and took the lighted match the gaoler had struck. If he had known the ways of the English police, he would have grown suspicious. Elsewhere, a man might be bullied, browbeaten, frightened into a confession. In France, Juge d'Instruction and detective would combine to wring from his reluctant lips a damaging admission. In America, the Third Degree, most despicable of police methods, would have been similarly employed. But the English police do most things by kindness, and do them very well. The sailor puffed at his cigarette, from time to time looking up from the bench on which he sat at the detective's smiling face. T. B. asked no questions; he had none to ask; he did not demand how the man came by his wealth; he would not be guilty of such a crudity. He waited for the sailor to talk. At last he spoke. "Monsieur," he said, "you wish to know where I got my money?" T. B. said nothing. "Honestly," said the sailor loudly, and with emphatic gesture; "honestly, monsieur;" and he went on earnestly, "By my way of reckoning, a man has a price." "Undoubtedly," agreed T. B. "A price for body and soul." The sailor blew a ring of smoke and watched it rising to the vaulted roof of the cell. "Some men," continued the man, "in their calm moments set their value at twenty million dollars--only to sell themselves in the heat of a foolish moment for----" He snapped his fingers. "I have never," thought T. B., "come into contact with so many philosophical criminals in my life." "Yet I would beg you to believe," said the sailor, "it is a question of opportunity and need. There are moments when I would not risk my liberty for a million pesetas--there have been days when I would have sold my soul for ten mil-reis." He paused again, for he had all the Latin's appreciation of an audience; all the Latin's desire for dramatic effect. "Sixty thousand pesetas is a large sum, monsieur; it amounts to more than £2,000 in your money--that was my price!" "For what?" "I will set you a riddle: on the _Maria Braganza_ we had one hundred officers and men----" T. B. saw light. "You are a deserter from the _Maria Braganza_," he said--but the man shook his head smilingly. "On the contrary I have my discharge from the navy, properly attested and signed by my good captain. You will find it at my lodgings, in a tin trunk under a picture of the blessed Saint Teresa of Avila, or, as some say, Sergovia. No, monsieur officer, I am discharged honourably. Listen." His cigarette was nearly finished, and T. B. opened his case again, and the man, with a grateful inclination of his head, helped himself. Slowly, he began his story, a story which, before all others, helps the mind to grasp the magnitude of a combination which made the events he described possible.