“Marteen Hillyard.”  He came close to Hillyard, and looked in his eyes, and at the shape of his features, and at the colour of his hair.  “Yes, it is the little Marteen,” he cried, “and now the little Marteen swings into Palma in his great steam yacht.  Dios, what a change!”

“And Jose Medina owns two hundred motor-feluccas and employs eighteen thousand men,” answered Hillyard.

Jose Medina held out his hand suddenly with a great burst of cordial, intimate laughter.

“Yes, we were companions in those days.  You helped me to drive my carts up into the mountains.  Good!” He patted Hillyard on the shoulder.  “That makes a difference, eh?  Come, we will go in again.  Now I shall help you.”

That reserve, that intense reserve of the Spaniard who so seldom admits another into real intimacy, and makes him acquainted with his private life, was down now.  Hillyard had won.  Jose Medina’s house and his chattels were in earnest at Martin Hillyard’s disposal.  The two men went back through the house into a veranda above the steep fall of garden and cliff, where there were chairs in which a man could sit at his ease.

Jose Medina fetched out a box of cigars.

“You can trust these.  They are good.”

“Who should know if you do not?” answered Hillyard as he took one; and again Jose Medina patted him on the shoulder, but this time with a gurgle of delight.

“El pequeno Martin,” he said, and he clapped his hands.  From some recess of the house his wife appeared with a bottle of champagne and two glasses on a tray.

“Now we will talk,” said Jose Medina, “or rather I will talk and you shall listen.”

Hillyard nodded his head, as he raised the glass to his lips.

“I have learnt in the last years that it is better to listen than to talk,” said he. “Salut!”

CHAPTER XIV

“TOUCHING THE MATTER OF THOSE SHIPS”

It has been said that Hillyard joined a service with its traditions to create.  Indeed, it had everything to create, its rules, its methods, its whole philosophy.  And it had to do this quickly during the war, and just for the war; since after the war it would cease to be.  Certain conclusions had now been forced by experience quite definitely on Hillyard’s mind.  Firstly, that the service must be executive.  Its servants must take their responsibility and act if they were going to cope with the intrigues and manoeuvres of the Germans.  There was no time for discussions with London, and London was overworked in any case.  The Post Office, except on rare occasions, could not be used; telegrams, however ingenious the cipher, were dangerous; and even when London received them, it had not the knowledge of the sender on the spot, wherewith to fill them out.  London, let it be admitted, or rather that one particular small section of London with which Hillyard dealt, was at one with Hillyard.  Having chosen its men it trusted them, until such time as indiscretion or incapacity proved the trust misplaced; in which case the offender was brought politely home upon some excuse, cordially thanked, and with a friendly shake of the hand, shown the door.