“It is the war, monsieur.”

Hillyard lifted up his hands in indignation too deep for words.  He gathered together his bag and his coat and stick, handed them to a porter and descended.  He passed into the waiting-room, and was directed by a soldier with a fixed bayonet to take his place in the queue of passengers.  But he said quietly to the soldier: 

“I would like to see M. de Cassaud, the Commissaire of Police.”

Hillyard was led apart; his card was taken from him; he was ushered instantly into an office where an elderly French officer sat in mufti before a table.  He shook Hillyard cordially by the hand.

“You pass through?  I myself hope to visit Barcelona again very soon.  Jean, wait outside with monsieur’s baggage,” this to the porter who had pushed in behind Hillyard.  M. de Cassaud rose and closed the door.  He had looked at Hillyard’s face and acted quickly.

“It is something more than compliments you want from me, monsieur.  Well, what can I do?”

“The second sleeping-car, compartments numbers 11 and 12,” said Hillyard urgently.  “In the water-tank of the lavatory there is a little metal case with letters from Berlin for Barcelona and Madrid.  But wait, monsieur!”

M. de Cassaud was already at the door.

“It is the attendant of the sleeping-car who hides them there.  If he can be called into an office quietly on some matter of routine and held there whilst your search is made, then those in Madrid and Barcelona to whom these letters are addressed may never know they have been sent at all!”

M. de Cassaud nodded and went out.  Hillyard waited nervously in the little whitewashed room.  It was impossible that the attendant should have taken fright and bolted.  Even if he bolted, it would be impossible that he should escape across the frontier.  It was impossible that he should recover the metal case from the water-tank, while the carriage stood openly at the platform of Cerbere station.  He would be certain to wait until it was shunted into the cleaning shed.  But so many certainties had been disproved, so many possibilities had come to pass during the last two years, that Hillyard was sceptical to his finger-tips.  M. de Cassaud was a long time away.  Yes, certainly M. de Cassaud was a very long——­and the door opened, and M. de Cassaud appeared.

“He is giving an account of his blankets and his towels.  There are two soldiers at the door.  He is safe.  Come!” said the Commissaire.

They crossed the platform to the carriage, whilst Hillyard described the attendant’s anxiety that he should bolt his door.  “No doubt he gave the same advice to the manufacturer of Perpignan,” Hillyard added.

It was M. de Cassaud who arranged and mounted the steps in the tiny washing-room.

“Look, monsieur,” said Hillyard, and he pointed to the little aperture in the coloured glass of the window.  “One can see from the corridor what is going on in this room.  That is useful.  If a traveller complains—­bah, it is the war!” and Hillyard laughed.