"Not dead, but nearly; Poltavo saw him carried into the house, and a little later an ambulance came flying to the door. He saw him carried out. Later he enquired at the hospital--sent in his card, if you please--and found that Smith was shot through the shoulder." Grayson lowered his voice. "Is Poltavo----" He did not complete his sentence. "He's dangerous. I tell you, Grayson, we are on tender ice; there's a crackling and a creaking in the air." Grayson licked his dry lips. "I've been having dreams lately," he rumbled. "Horrid dreams about prisons----" "Oh, cut it out!" said Baggin. "There's no time for fool dreaming. I'm going to the committee to-night; you back me up. Hullo!" A beggar had sidled into the café in the waiter's absence. He moved with the furtive shuffle of the practised mendicant. His hair was close-cropped, and on his cheeks was a three days' growth of beard. He held out a grimy hand. "Señor," he murmured. "Por Dios----" "Get out." The man looked at him appealingly. "Diez centimes, señor," he whined. Baggin raised his hand, but checked its descent. He had seen something behind the ragged jacket closely buttoned at the throat. "Wait for me on the road to Jerez," he commanded, and tossed the man a silver piece. The beggar caught it with the skill of an expert. Baggin cut short the torrent of thanks, blessings, and protestations. "Meet me in half-an-hour; you understand?" "What the devil are you going to do?" demanded Grayson. "You shall see." Half-an-hour later they emerged from the café, Baggin to his horse, and the fat man to a capacious victoria that he had summoned from the hotel stables. A mile along the road they came up with the beggar. "Get down, Grayson, and send the victoria on; you can signal it when you want it." He waited until the empty victoria had driven away; then he turned to the waiting ragamuffin. "What is your name?" "Carlos Cabindez," said the man hesitatingly. "Where do you live?" "At Ronda." "Where have you come from?" "Tarifa." "What is your trade?" The man grinned and shuffled his feet. "A fisherman," he said at last. Baggin's hand suddenly shot out; and, grasping his collar, tore open the frayed jacket. The man wrenched himself free with an imprecation. "Take your hand from that knife," commanded Baggin. "I will do you no harm. Where did you get that shirt?" The beggar scowled and drew the threadbare coat across his chest. "I bought it," he said. "That's a lie," said Baggin. "It is a prisoner's shirt; you are an escaped convict." The man made no answer. "From Ceuta?" Again no reply. "What was your sentence? Answer." "Life," said the other sullenly. "Your crime?" "_Asesinatos_." "How many?" Baggin's eyes narrowed. "Three murders, eh?" he said. Then, "You would like to earn a thousand pesetas?" he asked. The man's eyes lit up. Baggin turned to the troubled Grayson.