es, fresh fruit, and a bottle of
excellent wine, upon which we made a hearty meal, after which we dozed
in our corners till dawn.

Throughout the day my companion, who was quite as eager as myself to
arrest the notorious Despujol, chatted in French as we went slowly
down the fertile valley of the Ebro and suddenly out to where on our
right lay the broad blue sea. Not until late afternoon did we arrive
at Barcelona, and having two hours to wait we went along the Paseo de
San Juan to the Francia Station, and having deposited our bags there,
strolled along to the Plaza de Cataluna, where, at the gay Maison
Doree, we had coffee and cigarettes, while my companion read the
_Diario_ and I watched the picturesque crowd about us. Rivero knew
Barcelona well, so after we had finished our cigarettes we took a taxi
to the Central Police Office, where we had a chat with the chief of
the Detective Department, a short stout little man with a round boyish
face and a black moustache. After that we took another taxi along to
the toy-fair in the Plaza de la Constitucion, it being the Feast of
St. George, the patron saint of Catalonia, which accounted for the
bustle and gaiety of the city.

Then, after an interesting half-hour, we returned to the station and
set out upon our slow eight-hour journey through the rich wine lands
of Catalonia, with their quaint mediaeval villages and towns, with
occasional glimpses of sapphire sea, and passing over many ravines and
gullies we at last, long after nightfall, entered a long tunnel at
the end of which was the station of Port-Bou, the French frontier.

The usual prying douaniers were quickly at work, and after some coffee
at the Restaurant Baque, which is so well known to travellers to
Southern Spain, we re-entered the train for Narbonne, where in the
morning we changed and travelled to Montauban, by way of Carcassonne
and Toulouse.

It was late in the afternoon when, on arrival at our destination, we
took rooms at the Hotel du Midi on the opposite side of the Tarn to
the prosperous pleasant little French town, once a headquarter of the
Inquisition, and even now containing in its Museum the executioner's
axe and many instruments of torture. After a wash and a meal, for we
were both very hungry, we set out to find Monsieur Charles Rabel,
whose address was Rue de Lalande, number 163.

We crossed the wonderful old brick bridge from Villebourbon to the
town--a bridge built in the fourteenth centur