lace to
villas draped in bougainvillea behind gardens of trees. Then the villas
ceased and the car sped across the flats of Llobegrat and climbed to the
finest coast-road in the world. It was a night for lovers. A full moon,
bright as silver, sailed in the sky; the broad, white road rose and
dipped and wound past here and there a blue cottage, here and there a
peasant mounted on his donkey and making his journey by night to escape
the burning day. Far below the sea spread out most gently murmuring, and
across a great wide path of glittering jewels, now a sailing-ship glided
like a bird, now the black funnels of a steamer showed. So light was the
wind that Hillyard could hear the kick of its screw, like the beating of
some gigantic clock. He took his hat from his head and threw wide open
his thin coat. After the heavy days of anxiety he felt a nimbleness of
heart and spirit which set him in tune with the glory of that night.
Suspicions, vague and elusive, had for so long clustered about Jose
Medina, and then had come the two categorical statements, dates and
hours, chapter and verse! He was still not sure, he declared to himself
in warning. But he was sure enough to risk the great move--the move
which he alone could make! He should no doubt have been dreaming of Joan
Whitworth and fitting her into the frame of that August night. But he
had not thought of her by one o'clock in the morning; and by one o'clock
in the morning his motor-car had come to a stop on the deserted quay of
Tarragona harbour under the stern of an English yacht.

CHAPTER XIII

OLD ACQUAINTANCE

At six o'clock on the second morning after Hillyard's visit to
Barcelona, the steam-yacht _Dragonfly_ swept round the point of La
Dragonera and changed her course to the south-east. She steamed with a
following breeze over a sea of darkest sapphire which broke in sparkling
cascades of white and gold against the rocky creeks and promontories on
the ship's port side. Peasants working on the green terraces above the
rocks stopped their work and stared as the blue ensign with the Union
Jack in the corner broke out from the flagstaff at the stern.

"But it's impossible," cried one. "Only yesterday a French mail-steamer
was chased in the passage between Mallorca and Minorca. It's
impossible."

Another shaded his eyes with his hand and looked upon the neat yacht
with its white deck and shining brass in contemptuous pity.

"Loco Ingles," said he.

The