Spain is a country where custom reigns supreme. The wonder of to-
day is by to-morrow a matter of indifference.

The man who came a second time to the Cafe Carmona in the Calle
Velasquez in Seville must have known this; else the politely
surprised looks, the furtive glances, the whisperings that met his
first visit would have sent him to some other house of mild
entertainment. The truth was that the Cafe Carmona was, and is
still, select; with that somewhat narrow distinctiveness which is
observed by such as have no friendly feelings towards the
authorities that be.

It is a small Cafe, and foreigners had better not look for it. Yet
this man was a foreigner--in fact an Englishman. He was one of
those quiet, unobtrusive men, who are taller than they look, and
more important than they care to be considered. He could, for
instance, pass down the crowded Sierpe of an evening, without so
much as attracting a glance; for, by a few alterations in dress, he
converted his outward appearance into that of a Spaniard. He was
naturally dark, and for reasons of his own he spared the razor. His
face was brown, his features good, and a hat with a flat brim is
easily bought. Thus this man passed out of his hotel door in the
evening the facsimile of a dozen others walking in the same street.

Moreover, he had no great reason for doing this. He preferred, he
said, to pass unnoticed. But at the Foreign Office it was known
that no man knew Spain as Cartoner knew it. Some men are so. They
take their work seriously. Cartoner had looked on the map of Europe
some years before for a country little known of the multitude, and