feminine fashion and the alluring City of
Light.

In Madrid to-day one has all the pre-war prosperity combined with
post-war extravagance. The latest _mode_ of the Rue de la Paix is seen
at the Ritz in Madrid almost before it is seen at Armenonville, and it
becomes only second-hand when it has filtered through Dover Street--or
"Petticoat Lane," as that thoroughfare is termed by truculent London
bachelors.

After dinner I spent an hour at the gay Cafe Iberia, in the Carrera de
San Jeronimo, and returned early to the hotel.

As I entered the concierge met me with a note. It was from Harry
Hambledon, written an hour before, urging me to meet him at the Gato
Negro Cafe (The Black Cat), in the Calle del Principe.

I lost no time in keeping the appointment, and on meeting my friend,
he whispered excitedly:

"Suzor has a visitor. He arrived at the Ritz at six o'clock, and they
have dined together. He is a well-dressed man of between forty and
fifty, rather sallow-faced, and has given his name at the hotel as
Henri Thibon, rentier, of Bordeaux."

"Aged nearly fifty--sallow?" I echoed. "Are his features of a rather
Oriental cast--a dark, handsome man with deep-set eyes and a dimple in
the centre of his chin?" I asked eagerly.

"Yes. That just describes him."

"De Gex!" I gasped. "Then he is here!"

"After dinner they went out to the Trianon. They are there now."

"Then we will watch them return to the Ritz," I said.

We spent an hour together in the cafe, after which we rose and walked
through the well-lit streets and along beneath the trees of the Prado
until we came to the great plaza where, opposite the Neptune fountain,
the fine hotel stands back behind its gardens.

We both halted against the colossal fountain, the waters of which were
plashing into the great basin, and found that from where we were
standing we had a good view of the entrance to the hotel. That the
theatres were over was proved by the number of cars and taxis that
were depositing people in evening-dress who had come to the Ritz to
supper. Hence we had not long to wait before we distinguished Suzor
and his companion, both in dinner-jackets, strolling on foot across
the Plaza from the Calle de Cervantes in the direction of the hotel.

In an instant I recognized the form of the mysterious owner of the
house in Stretton Street.

"Yes!" I cried. "I'm not mistaken! But why is he here under the name
of Thibon? Without a doubt he is known in Madr