es were speaking in Spanish, one
a woman's voice with a guttural accent.

"Rosa Hahn," said Hillyard as the story was told to him in the cabin of
the yacht.

"The other a man's voice. But again it was a foreign voice, not a
Spaniard's. But I could not distinguish the accent."

"Greek, do you think?" asked Hillyard. "There is a Levantine Greek high
up in the councils of the Germans."

Jose Medina, however, did not know.

"Here were two foreigners talking about me, and fortunately in Spanish.
I was to arrive immediately; Rosa was to make my acquaintance. What my
relations were with this man, Hillyard--yes, you came into the
conversation, my friend, too--I was quickly to be persuaded to tell.
Oh--you have a saying--everything in your melon patch was lovely."

"Not for nothing has the American tourist come to Spain," Hillyard
murmured.

"Then their voices dropped a little, and your B45 was mentioned--once or
twice. And a name in connection with B45 once or twice. I did not
understand what it was all about."

"But you remember the name!" Fairbairn exclaimed eagerly.

"Yes, I do."

"Well, what was it?"

It was again Fairbairn who spoke. Hillyard had not moved, nor did he
even look up.

"It was Mario Escobar," said Jose Medina; and as he spoke he knew that
the utterance of the name awakened no surprise in Martin Hillyard.
Hillyard filled his pipe from the tobacco tin, and lighted it before he
spoke.

"Do you know anything of this Mario Escobar?" he asked, "you who know
every one?"

Jose Medina shrugged his shoulders, and threw up his hands.

"There was some years ago a Mario Escobar at Alicante," and Jose Medina
saw Hillyard's eyes open and fix themselves upon him with an unblinking
steadiness. Just so Jose Medina imagined might some savage animal in a
jungle survey the man who had stumbled upon his lair.

"That Mario Escobar, a penniless, shameless person, was in business with
a German, the German Vice-Consul. He went from Alicante to London."

"Thank you," said Hillyard. He rose from his chair and went to the
window. But he saw nothing of the deck outside, or the sea beyond. He
saw a man at a supper party in London a year before the war began,
betraying himself by foolish insistent questions uttered in fear lest
his close intimacy with Germans in Alicante should be known.

"I have no doubt that Mario Escobar came definitely to England, long
before the war, to spy," said Hillyard gravely. He returned t