Notwithstanding the rivulets of perspiration that were coursing down every fold of his flesh, and regardless of the fact that the body of his victoria was tipped at a drunken angle, as if struggling to escape the burdens of his great weight, Don Mario felt a jauntiness of body and of spirit almost like that of youth.  He saw himself as a splendid prince riding toward the humble home of some obscure maiden whom he had graciously chosen to be his mate.

His arrival threw Dona Isabel into a flutter; the woman could scarcely contain her curiosity when she came to meet him, for he was not the sort of man to inconvenience himself by mere social visits.  Their first formal greetings over, Don Mario surveyed the bare living-room and remarked, lugubriously: 

“I see many changes here.”

“No doubt,” the widow agreed.  “Times have been hard since poor Esteban’s death.”

“What a terrible calamity that was!  I shudder when I think of it,” said he.  “I was his guest on the night previous, you remember?  In fact, I witnessed his wager of the negro girl, Evangelina—­the root of the whole tragedy.  Well, well!  Who would have believed that old slave, her father, would have run mad at losing her?  A shocking affair, truly! and one I shall never get out of my mind.”

“Shocking, yes.  But what do you think of a rich man, like Esteban, who would leave his family destitute?  Who would die without revealing the place where he had stored his treasure?”

Dona Isabel, it was plain, felt her wrongs keenly; she spoke with as much spirit as if her husband had permitted himself to be killed purely out of spite toward her.

De Castano shook his round bullet head, saying with some impatience:  “You still believe in that treasure, eh?  My dear senora, the only treasure Varona left was his adorable children—­ and your admirable self.”  Immediately the speaker regretted his words, for he remembered, too late, that Dona Isabel was reputed to be a trifle unbalanced on this subject of the Varona treasure.

“I do not believe; I know!” the widow answered, with more than necessary vehemence.  “What became of all Esteban’s money if he did not bury it?  He never gave any to me, for he was a miser.  You know, as well as I, that he carried on a stupendous business in slaves and sugar, and it was common knowledge that he hid every peso for fear of his enemies.  But where?  Where?  That is the question.”

“You, if any one, should know, after all the years you have spent in hunting for it,” the merchant observed.  “Dios mio!  Almost before Esteban was buried you began the search.  People said you were going to tear this house down.”

“Well, I never found a trace.  I had holes dug in the gardens, too.”

“You see?  No, senora, it is possible to hide anything except money.  No man can conceal that where another will not find it.”

Isabel’s face had grown hard and avaricious, even during this brief talk; her eyes were glowing; plainly she was as far as ever from giving up her long-cherished conviction.