visited the Manor to arrest him that
day, but they had been led in another direction by a clue which he had
provided; and afterwards in the dusk he had doubled back and hid himself
under Jean Jacques' roof. He had very important business at the Manor
Cartier.

Jean Jacques' voice ceased one song, and then, after a silence, it took
up another, not so melodious. Sebastian Dolores had impatiently waited
for this later "musicale" to begin--he had heard it often before; and
when it was at last a regular succession of nasal explosions, he crawled
out and began to do the business which had brought him to the Manor
Cartier.

He did it all alone and with much skill; for when he was an anarchist in
Spain, those long years ago, he had learned how to use tools with expert
understanding. Of late, Spain had been much in his mind. He wanted to go
back there. Nostalgia had possessed him ever since he had come again to
the Manor Cartier after Zoe had left. He thought much of Spain, and but
little of his daughter. Memory of her was only poignant, in so far as it
was associated with the days preceding the wreck of the Antoine. He
had had far more than enough of the respectable working life of the New
World; but there never was sufficient money to take him back to Europe,
even were it safe to go. Of late, however, he felt sure that he might
venture, if he could only get cash for the journey. He wanted to drift
back to the idleness and adventure and the "easy money" of the old
anarchist days in Cadiz and Madrid. He was sick for the patio and the
plaza, for the bull-fight, for the siesta in the sun, for the lazy
glamour of the gardens and the red wine of Valladolid, for the redolent
cigarette of the roadside tavern. This cold iron land had spoiled him,
and he would strive to get himself home again before it was too late.
In Spain there would always be some woman whom he could cajole; some
comrade whom he could betray; some priest whom he could deceive,
whose pocket he could empty by the recital of his troubles. But if,
peradventure, he returned to Spain with money to spare in his pocket,
how easy indeed it would all be, and how happy he would find himself
amid old surroundings and old friends!

The way had suddenly opened up to him when Jean Jacques had brought home
in hard cash, and had locked away in the iron-doored cupboard in
the officewall, his last, his cherished, eight thousand dollars. Six
thousand of that eight were still left,