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 Decoud's best dry raillery about "my illustrious friend, the unique capataz de cargadores," had ever invented. The fellow was unique. He was not "one in a thousand." He was absolutely the only one. The doctor surrendered. There was something in the genius of that Genoese seaman which dominated the destinies of great enterprises and of many people, the fortunes of Charles Gould, the fate of an admirable woman. At this last thought the doctor had to clear his throat before he could speak.

In a completely changed tone he pointed out to the capataz that, to begin with, he personally ran no great risk. As far as everybody knew, he was dead. It was an enormous advantage. He had only to keep out of sight in the Casa Viola, where the old Garibaldino was known to be alone with his dead wife. The servants had all run away. No one would think of searching for him there—or anywhere else on earth, for that matter.

"That would be very true," Nostromo spoke up, bitterly, "if I had not met you."

For a time the doctor kept silent. "Do you mean to say that you think I may give you away?" he asked, in an unsteady voice. "Why? Why should I do that?"

"What do I know? Why not? To gain a day, perhaps. It would take Sotillo a day to give me the estrapade, and try some other things, perhaps, before he puts a bullet through my heart—as he did to that poor wretch here. Why not?"

The doctor swallowed with difficulty. His throat had gone dry in a moment. It was not from indigiia-