e money out of them by selling dulces and membrilla and
almond rock from Alicante. Oh, the life wasn't so bad. But it came to an
end. A shipping agent at Alicante used me as a messenger, and finally,
since I knew English and no one else in his office did, turned me into a
shipping clerk."

Hillyard had quite forgotten Commodore Graham, who sat patiently
twiddling his thumbs throughout the autobiography, and now came with
something of a start to a recognition of where he sat. He sprang up and
reached for his hat.

"So, you see, you might as well ask a Chinaman at Stepney what he knows
of England as ask me what I know of Spain. I am just wasting your time.
But I have to thank you," and he bowed with a winning pleasantness, "for
reviving in me some very happy recollections which were growing dim."

The Commodore, however, did not stir.

"But it is possible," he said quietly, "that you do know the very places
which interest me--the people too."

Hillyard looked at the Commodore. He put down his hat and resumed his
seat.

"For instance?"

"The Columbretes."

Hillyard laughed.

"Islands sixty miles from Valencia."

"With a lighthouse," interrupted Graham.

"And a little tumble-down inn with a vine for an awning."

"Oh! I didn't know there was an inn," said Graham. "Already you have
told me something."

"I fished round the Columbretes all one summer," said Hillyard, with a
laugh.

Graham nodded two or three times quickly.

"And the Balearics?"

"I worked on one of Island Line ships between Barcelona and Palma
through a winter."

"There's a big wireless," said Commodore Graham.

"At Soller. On the other side of Mallorca from Palma. You cross a
wonderful pass by the old monastery where Georges Sand and Chopin stayed
and quarrelled."

The literary reminiscence left Commodore Graham unmoved.

"Did you ever go to Iviza?"

"For a month with a tourist who dug for ancient pottery."

Graham swung round to his bureau and drummed with the tips of his
fingers upon the leather pad. He made no sign which could indicate
whether he was satisfied or no. He lit a cigarette and handed the box to
Hillyard.

"Did you ever come across a man called Jose Medina?"

Eleven years had passed since the strange days in Spain, and those
eleven years not without their sharp contrasts and full hours.
Hillyard's act of memory was the making of a picture. One by one he
called up the chain of coast cities wherein he had wandered