black ship in those neutral waters without a hope that his steering-gear would just at this moment play him false and swing his bows at full speed on to her side.  The Dragonfly ran past her to the arm of the great mole and was moored with her stern to the quay.  A small crowd of gesticulating idlers gathered about the ropes, and all were but repeating the phrases of the peasants upon the hill-side, as Hillyard walked ashore down the gangway.

“But it’s impossible that you should have come.”

“Just outside there is one.  The fisherman saw her yesterday.”

“She rose and spoke to one of the fishing-boats.”

“But it is impossible that you should have come here.”

“Yet I am here,” answered Hillyard, the very mad multi-millionaire.  “What will you, my friends?  Shall I tell you a secret?  Yes, but tell no one else!  The Germans would be most enraged if they found out that we knew it.  There aren’t any submarines.”

A little jest spoken in a voice of good-humour, with a friendly smile, goes a long way anywhere, but further in Spain than anywhere else in the world.  The small crowd laughed with Hillyard, and made way for him.

A man offered to him with a flourish and a bow a card advertising a garage at which motor-cars could be hired for expeditions in the island.  Hillyard accepted it and put it into his pocket.  He paid a visit to his consul, and thereafter sat in a cafe for an hour.  Then he strolled through the narrow streets, admired this and that massive archway, with its glimpse of a great stone staircase within, and mounted the hill.  Almost at the top, he turned sharply into a doorway and ran up the stairs to the second floor.  He knocked upon the door, and a maid-servant answered.

“Senor Jose Medina lives here?”

“Yes, senor.”

“He is at home?”

“No, senor.  He is in the country at his finca.”

Hillyard thanked the girl, and went whistling down the stairs.  Standing in the archway, he looked up and down the street with something of the air of a man engaged upon a secret end.  One or two people were moving in the street; one or two were idling on the pavement.  Hillyard smiled and walked down the hill again.  He took the advertisement card from his pocket and, noting the address, walked into the garage.

“It will please me to see something of the island,” he said.  “I am not in Mallorca for long.  I should like a car after lunch.”  He gave the name of a cafe between the cathedral and the quay.  “At half-past two?  Thank you.  And by which road shall I go for all that is most of Mallorca?”