“Have I lost my reason?” gasped the widow.  “No right?”

“At least no better right than I. Don’t you understand?  You have no title to those plantations!  They are mine, for I have paid the taxes out of my own pockets now these many years.”

“Taxes!  What do you mean?”

“I paid them.  The receipts are in my name.”

“God!  Such perfidy!  And you who knew him!”

“The deeds have been lost for so long that the property would have reverted to the crown had it not been for me.  You doubt that, eh?  Well, appeal to the court and you will find that it is true.  For that matter, the officials make new laws to fit each case, and should they learn that Esteban Varona died intestate they would arrange somehow to seize all his property and leave you without a roof over your head.  Fortunately I can prevent that, for I have a title that will stand, in want of a better one.”

There was a momentary silence while the unhappy woman struggled with herself.  Then: 

“You took advantage of my ignorance of business to rob me,” she declared.  “Well, I know something about the Government officials:  if they would make a law to fit my case they will make one to fit yours.  When I tell them what you have done perhaps you will not fare so well with them as you expect.”  She was fighting now with the desperation of one cornered.

“Perhaps.”  Cueto shrugged.  “That is what I want to talk to you about, if only you will be sensible.  Now then, let us be frank.  Inasmuch as we’re both in much the same fix, hadn’t we better continue our present arrangements?” He stared unblinkingly at his listener.  “Oh, I mean it!  Is it not better for you to be content with what my generosity prompts me to give, rather than to risk ruin for both of us by grasping for too much?”

“Merciful God!  The outrage!  I warrant you have grown rich through your stealing.”  Isabel’s voice had gone flat with consternation.

“Rich?  Well, not exactly, but comfortably well off.”  Cueto actually smiled again.  “No doubt my frankness is a shock to you.  You are angry at my proposition, eh?  Never mind.  You will think better of it in time, if you are a sensible woman.”

“What a fiend!  Have you no sentiment?”

“Oh, senora!  I am all sentiment.  Don Esteban was my benefactor.  I revere his memory, and I feel it my duty to see that his family does not want.  That is why I have provided for you, and will continue to provide—­in proper measure.  But now, since at last we enjoy such confidential relations, let us have no more of these miserable suspicions of each other.  Let us entirely forget this unpleasant misunderstanding and be the same good friends as before.”

Having said this, Pancho Cueto stood silent a moment in polite expectancy; then receiving no intelligible reply, he bowed low and left the room.

To the avaricious Dona Isabel Cueto’s frank acknowledgment of theft was maddening, and the realization that she was helpless, nay, dependent upon his charity for her living, fairly crucified her proud spirit.