form of vengeance, and he grinned again as he thought of the vast
expense he could force upon Volterra in order to save the palace. But
he might do something else. Instead of flooding the cellars and
possibly drowning the masons who had ousted him, he could turn
informer and defeat the schemes of Volterra and Malipieri, for he
never doubted but that if they found anything of value they meant to
keep the whole profit of it to themselves.

He had the most vague notions of what the treasure might be. When the
fatal accident had happened his grandfather had been the only man who
had actually penetrated into the innermost hiding-place; the rest had
fled when the water rose and had left him to drown. They had seen
nothing, and their story had been handed down as a mere record of the
catastrophe. Toto knew at least that the vaults had then been entered
from above, which was by far the easier way, but a new pavement had
long ago covered all traces of the aperture.

There was probably gold down there, gold of the ancients, in earthen
jars. That was Toto's belief, and he also believed that when it was
found it would belong to the government, because the government took
everything, but that somehow, in real justice, it should belong to the
Pope. For Toto was not only a genuine Roman of the people, but had
always regarded himself as a sort of hereditary retainer of an ancient
house.

His mind worked slowly. A day passed, and he heard the steady
hammering still, and after a second night he reached a final
conclusion. The Pope must have the treasure, whatever it might be.

That, he decided, was the only truly moral view, and the only one