w of these men."

"Ramon Castillo is as honest as the best of them."

"Yes, but he is not one of them," said Hillyard. "He is a stevedore with
thirty years of the quayside and at the port of Barcelona, where there
are German ships with their officers and crews on board."

Hillyard was troubled. He drew from his pocket creased letters and read
them for the twentieth time with a frowning countenance.

"There is so much at stake. Two hundred feluccas--two hundred
motor-driven feluccas! And eighteen thousand men, on shore and sea? See
what it means! On our side, the complete surveillance of the Western
Mediterranean! On the other side--against us--two hundred travelling
supply bases for submarines, two hundred signal stations. I want to be
sure! I want neither to give the enemy the advantage by putting him upon
his guard, nor to miss the great opportunity myself."

Lopez Baeza nodded.

"Why not talk with Ramon Castillo yourself?" he asked.

"That is what I want to do."

"I will arrange for it. When?"

"To-night," said Hillyard.

Lopez Baeza lifted his hands in deprecation.

"Yes. I can take you to his house--now. But, senor, Ramon is a poor man.
He lives in a little narrow street."

Hillyard looked quietly at Lopez Baeza. He had found men on the
Mediterranean littoral whom he could trust with his life and everything
that was his. But a good working principle was to have not overmuch
faith in any one. A noisome little street in the lower quarters of
Barcelona--who could tell what might happen after one had plunged into
it?

"I will come with you," he said.

"Good," said Lopez. "I will go on ahead." And once more Hillyard's quiet
eyes rested upon Baeza's face. "It is not wise that we should walk out
together. There is no one here, it is true, but in the chairs outside
the cafes--who shall say?"

"Yes. You go on ahead," Hillyard agreed. "That is wise."

Lopez rose.

"Give me five minutes, senor. Then down the Rambla. The second turning
to the right, beyond the Opera House. You will see me at the corner.
When you see me, follow!"

Hillyard rose and shook hands cordially with Lopez Baeza with the air of
a man who might never see his friend again for years. Baeza commended
him to God and went out of the restaurant on to the lighted footway.

Hillyard read through the two creased letters again, though he knew them
by heart. They had reached him from William Lloyd, an English merchant
at Barcelona, at two d