CHAPTER XII.
IN BARCELONA It was nine o'clock on a night of late August.
The restaurant of the Maison Doree in the Plaza Cataluna at Barcelona looks across the brilliantly-lighted square from the south side.

On the pavement in front of it and of its neighbour, the Cafe Continental, the vendors of lottery tickets were bawling the lucky numbers they had for sale.

Even in this wide space the air was close and stale.

Within, a few people left over in the town had strayed in to dine at tables placed against the walls under flamboyant decorations in the style of Fragonard.

At a table Hillyard was sitting alone over his coffee.