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The three brigands protested that nothing had ever been farther from their thoughts.

“Instead of which,” he went on, “you have fed me and put heart in me. I shall return to Rome in the morning and face whatever music my own infatuated foolishness has set going. Do you understand anything of finance?”

The taciturn brigand grinned sheepishly.

He said that he had had one once; but that the priest had touched it with a holy relic and it had gone away. “It was on the back of my neck,” he said.

Asabri laughed.

“I should have said banking,” said he, “stocks and bonds.”

The brigands admitted that they knew nothing of these things. Asabri sighed.

“Two months ago,” he said, “I was a rich man. To-day I have nothing. In a few days it will be known that I have nothing; and then, my friends–the deluge. Such is finance. From great beginnings, lame endings. And yet the converse may be true. I have seen great endings come of small beginnings. Even now there is a chance for a man with a little capital….”

He raised his eyes and hands to heaven.

“Oh,” he cried, “if I could touch even five thousand lire I could retrieve my own fortunes and make the fortunes of whomsoever advanced me the money.”

The sullen brigand had been doing a sum on his fingers.

“How so, excellency?” he asked.

“Oh,” said Asabri, “it is very simple! I should buy certain stocks, which owing to certain conditions are very cheap, and I should sell them very dear. You have heard of America?”

They smiled and nodded eagerly.

“Of Wall Street?”

They looked blank.

“Doubtless,” said the banker, “you have been taught by your priests to believe that the great church of St. Peter, in Rome, is the actual centre of the universe. Is it not so?”

They assented, not without wonder, since the fact was well known.

“Recent geographers,” said Asabri, “unwilling to take any statement for granted, have, after prolonged and scientific investigation, discovered that this idea is hocus pocus. The centre of the universe is in the United States, in the city of New York, in Wall Street. The number in the street, to be precise, is fifty-nine. From fifty-nine Wall Street, the word goes out to the extremities of the world: ‘Let prices be low.’ Or: ‘Let them be high.’ And so they become, according to the word. But unless I can find five thousand lire with which to take advantage of this fact, why to-morrow—-“

“To-morrow?” asked the brigand who had been first to smile.

“Two months ago,” said Asabri, “I was perhaps the most envied man in Italy. To-morrow I shall be laughed at.” He shrugged his powerful shoulders.

“But if five thousand lire could be found?”

It was the sullen brigand who spoke, and his companions eyed him with some misgiving.

“In that case,” said Asabri, “I should rehabilitate my fortune and that of the man, or men, who came to my assistance.”

“Suppose,” said the sullen one, “that I were in a position to offer you the loan of five thousand lire, or four thousand eight hundred and ninety-two, to be exact, what surety should I receive that my fortunes and those of my associates would be mended thereby?”

“My word,” said Asabri simply, and he turned his face of a Roman emperor and looked the sullen brigand directly in the eye.

“Words,” said this one, although his eyes fell before the steadiness of the banker’s, “are of all kinds and conditions, according to whoso gives them.”

Asabri smiled, and sure of his notoriety: “I am Asabri,” said he.

They examined him anew with a great awe. The youngest said:

“And you have fallen upon evil days! I should have been less astonished if some one were to tell me that the late pope had received employment in hell.”

“Beppo,” said the sullen brigand, “whatever the state of his fortunes, the word of Asabri is sufficient. Go into the tomb of Attulius and fetch out the money.”

The money–silver, copper, and notes of small denominations–was in a dirty leather bag.