“Ah, my friend, it is you. As the poet says, ‘Even among the thorns the rose is sweet.’ You are not, I thank God, as others of your cloth.” Then he turned to Ellery. “Mr. Mulligan and I are old friends,” he said: “but it is not always so between me and the guardians of law and order, as you quaintly term them.” “Yes,” said Mulligan, smiling. “‘The Spaniard’ and I have had many a good talk together. But you didn’t know, did you, father, that I’d tracked you here. I wouldn’t go in because I thought there might be others who wouldn’t be so pleased to see me.” “As always, the soul of consideration. The mark, gentlemen, of true chivalry. I will requite you as best I can by any service that I can do to your friends.” And again he lifted his hat, and made a sweeping bow. When Joan and Ellery talked the thing over afterwards, they remembered that their eyes had met at this moment, and they had much ado not to laugh outright. They discovered that the same thought had come into their heads. This was not merely “The Spaniard”: it was Don Quixote himself come to life again. But where was Rosinante? Constable Mulligan excused himself. “I mustn’t be away from the station any longer. Now you’ve been introduced you can get along without me. You know where to find me if you want me again.” And, thanked and rewarded by Ellery, the constable returned to his duty, after putting a hand affectionately on the old man’s shoulder by way of farewell. Joan and Ellery between them told “the Spaniard” the full story of their quest, first as they walked towards Trafalgar Square, and then leaning over the very parapet over which Walter Brooklyn had leaned. “The Spaniard” heard them through, only inclining his head every now and then to show that he fully appreciated some particular point in the narrative. Finally, Ellery produced the photograph of Walter Brooklyn, and asked the old man whether he had seen the original on Tuesday night. “A fine figure of a gentleman,” said “the Spaniard,” “and, indeed, I know him well by sight, though hitherto I have been denied the honour of knowing his name. Often have I seen him in Pall Mall.” “Yes, but did you see him on Tuesday?” Joan could not help interrupting. “The Spaniard’s” way of continuing was in itself a mild and courteous reproof. “Often, my friends, have I seen him, little deeming that one day my memory of him might be of service to others.” And then he added, “Yes, I saw him here on Tuesday—here, on this very spot to which I have led you. Here he stopped and lighted a cigar. I noted that he lighted it from the stump of another.” “That was because he had no matches,” said Joan excitedly. “That bears out what he said.” “Madam, if it would not incommode you, might I crave your permission to smoke even now?” Joan readily gave it, and the old man deftly rolled a cigarette with strong black tobacco from a battered metal case. “Can you tell us at what time you saw him?” said Ellery.