“My lungs have always been my trouble,” he said.

Hardiman bent towards Stella Croyle.

“I think our new friend has had a curious life, Stella.  He should interest you.”

Stella Croyle replied with a shrewd look towards the Spaniard.

“At present he is interesting Escobar.  One would say Escobar was suspicious lest Mr. Hillyard should know too much of him.”

Sir Charles laughed.

“The Mario Escobars are always suspicious.  Let us see!” he said in a low voice, and leaning across the table, he shot a question sharply at the Spaniard.

“And what were you doing under the palm trees, in front of the sea at Alicante, Senor Escobar?”

Mario Escobar sat back.  The challenge had startled him.  He reflected, and as the recollection came he turned slowly very white.

“I?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Hardiman, leaning forward.  But it was not at Hardiman that Escobar was looking.  His eyes were fixed warily on Hillyard.  He answered the question warily too, fragment by fragment, ready to stop, ready to take the words back, if a sign of recollection kindled in Hillyard’s face.

“It is what we should call here the esplanade—­the sea and harbour on one side, the houses on the other.  The band plays under the palms in front of the Casino on summer nights.  I——­” and he took the last words at a rush—­“I was sitting in a lounge chair in front of the club, when I saw Mr. Hillyard pass.  An Englishman is noticeable in Alicante.  There are so few of them.”

“Yes,” Hillyard agreed.  No recollection was stirred in him by Escobar’s description.  Escobar turned away, but he could not quite conceal the relief he felt.

“Yes, my friend,” said Hardiman to himself, “you have taken your water-jump too.  And you’re uncommonly glad that you haven’t come a cropper.”

After that noticeable moment of tension, the talk swept on into sprightlier channels.

CHAPTER IV

THE SECRET OF HARRY LUTTRELL

“Shall I take you home?”

“Oh, will you?” cried Stella Croyle, with a little burst of pleasure.  After all, Hillyard was the great man of the evening, and that he should consider her out of all that company was pleasant.  “I will get my cloak.”

Throughout the supper-party Hillyard had been at a loss to discover in Stella Croyle the woman whom Hardiman had led him to expect.  Her spirits were high, but unforced.  She chattered away with more gaiety than wit, like the rest of Hardiman’s guests, but the gaiety was apt to the occasion.  She had the gift of a clear and musical laugh, and her small delicate face would wrinkle and pout into grimaces which gave to her a rather attractive air of gaminerie—­Hillyard could find no word but the French one to express her on that evening.  He drove her to a small house in the Bayswater Road, overlooking Kensington Gardens.