of which the knowledge might prove to be of value. His eye lighted
on Spain; and he spent his next leave there, and the next, and so
on.

Consequently there was no one at the Foreign Office who could hold a
candle to Cartoner in matters Spanish. That is already something--
to have that said of one. He is a wise man nowadays who knows
something (however small it be) better than his neighbour. Like all
his kind, this wise man kept his knowledge fresh. He was still
learning--he was studying at the Cafe Carmona in the little street
in Seville, called Velasquez.

When he pushed the inner glass door open and lounged into the smoke-
filled room, the waiter, cigarette in mouth, nodded in a friendly
way without betraying surprise. One or two old habitues glanced at
him, and returned to the perusal of La Libertad or El Imparcial
without being greatly interested. The stranger had come the night
before. He liked the place--the coffee suited his taste--"y bien,"
let him come again.

The waiter came forward without removing the cigarette from his
lips; which was already a step. It placed this new-comer on a level
with the older frequenters of the Carmona.

"Cafe?" he inquired.

"Cafe!" replied the stranger, who spoke little.

He had selected a little table standing rather isolated at one end
of the room, and he sat with his back to the wall. The whole Cafe