“Ah, time. Why should I mark the hours? What need have I to know? It was evening.” “But what you tell us is of no use unless you can say what time it was.” “Alas, if I had but known, my watch should never have gone—the way of all watches.” A faint flicker of a smile, and an extraordinarily expressive gesture, accompanied the phrase. It was as if all watches had a mysterious knack of vanishing into infinite space. “But, nevertheless, another’s memory may serve where mine fails. For I was not alone.” “Who was with you? Can we find him?” “I will find him for you; but not till evening. And meantime, I will seek for those who may have seen Mr. Brooklyn in Whitehall. If any can find such a man, I can find him. There is a fraternity among us who wander under the sky. We remark what passes around us; for we have no affairs of our own to disturb our minds.” He turned to Ellery. “It would be well that you should leave the photograph with me until evening. Then we will meet again.” An appointment was made for Trafalgar Square at eleven o’clock that same night. The old man would not meet them sooner, or elsewhere. Joan could not leave Sir Vernon at that hour; but Ellery would come. In parting, she thanked “the Spaniard” for all that he had done. “What can a man do better than come to the aid of ladies in distress? Truly, as the poet says, ‘He enlargeth his heart who doeth his neighbour a kindness.’ The word I have rendered ‘neighbour’ is feminine in the Spanish,” he added, half to himself. “What a queer old bird!” said Ellery, as they walked away. “It was difficult to keep it up while we were talking to him; but it was well worth while.” “I think he’s a dear,” said Joan. “A bit queer, of course; but see how he’s helping us. We could never have done anything without him.” “He’s quite off his chump, that’s clear. But he seems to be quite all there when it’s a question of getting something done. We’re meeting some queer people on this job.” “Who do you suppose he is?” asked Joan. “Nothing on earth, if you mean how does he get his living. I should say he was just what they call a character, picking up somehow barely enough to exist on, and drifting about with nothing in particular to do. He probably drinks, or has been in trouble somehow.” “I don’t care what trouble he’s been in. He fascinates me. And he’s obviously an educated man.” “Yes, I dare say he was quite the gentleman—in the orthodox sense—years ago. Now he is one of the bottom dogs, keeping up his self-respect by playing the hidalgo.” “Don’t you suppose he’s really a Spaniard?” “No more than you or I. He’s probably been in Spain. That’s all. But, whoever he is, he seems likely to get us just the information we want, and that’s what we really care about. Only I feel inclined to introduce him to my night watchman at Piccadilly. They would make a pretty pair. They are both hero-worshippers.” Chapter XXII “The Spaniard” Does His Bit