voices died away.

Cecil swung rapidly round. Two gentlemen, slight, swarthy, and evidently
of a Latin race, were moving slowly down the long drawing-room. They
were foreigners certainly, Spaniards possibly, but they had spoken of
his book in no modified terms of praise. He drew a little sigh of
satisfied contentment and turned again to the street. Ah, if his father,
the Bishop of Blanford, could have heard!

The two foreigners had meanwhile continued their conversation, though
out of earshot. The elder was speaking.

"As you say, its reputation is so slight," he said, "one of those
ephemeral productions that are forgotten in a day, that it will serve
our purpose well. We must have a password--the less noticeable the
better. When do you return to Washington?"

"The Legation may be closed at any moment now," replied the younger,
seating himself carelessly on the arm of a Morris chair, "and I may be
wanted. I go this afternoon, _a dios y a ventura_."

"Softly; not so loud."

"There's no one to hear. Keep us informed, I say. I'll see to the rest.
We've our secret lines of communication nearly complete. They may turn
us out of their capital, but--we shall know what passes. _Carramba!_
What is that?" For, in leaning back, the speaker had come against an
unresisting body.

Springing up and turning quickly round, he saw that the chair on the arm
of which he had been sitting was already occupied by the slumbering form
of a youngish man with clear-cut features and a voluminous golden
moustache.

"_Madre de Dios!_ Could he have heard?" exclaimed the younger man,
moving away.

"_Malhaya!_ No!" replied the other. "These pigs of Americanos who sleep
at noonday hear nothing! Come!" And, casting a glance of concentrated
contempt at the huddled-up figure, he put his arm through that of his
companion, and together they left the room.

A moment later the sleeper sat up, flicked a speck of dust off his
coat-sleeve, and, diving into a pocket, produced a note-book and blue
pencil and began to write rapidly. Evidently his occupation was a
pleasant one, for a broad smile illumined his face.

"Ah, Marchmont," said Banborough, coming towards him, "didn't know you'd
waked up."

"Was I asleep?"

"Rather. Don't suppose you saw those Spanish Dons who went out just
now?"

"Spaniards?" queried Marchmont, with a preoccupied air. "What about
'em?"

"Oh, nothing in particular, only I supposed that a Spaniard to a yellow
journalist