"You, can go on, Grayson," he said. "I shall see you to-night. In the meantime, I wish to have a little talk with our friend here." CHAPTER XXIII THE HOUSE ON THE HILL Beyond the town of Jerez and on the road that runs westward to San Lucar, there is a hill. Once upon a time, a grey old watch-tower stood upon its steepest place, but one day there came an eccentric American who purchased the land on which it stood, demolished the tower, and erected a castellated mansion. Rumour had it that he was mad, but no American would be confined on a Spaniard's appreciation of sanity. The American consul at Jerez, of his charity and kindliness of heart, journeyed out to call upon him, and received a cold welcome. A message came to him that the proprietor was in bed with gout, and neither then or at any time desired visitors, which so enraged the well-meaning consul that he never called again. The American's visits were of a fleeting character. He was in residence less than a month in the year. Then one day he came and remained. His name was registered as Señor Walter G. Brown, of New York. The English police sought him as George T. Baggin, an absconding promoter, broker, bucket-shop keeper, and all-round thief. After a time he began to receive visitors, who stayed on also. Then came a period when Mr. Walter G. Brown became aggressively patriotic. He caused to be erected on the topmost tower of his mansion an enormous flagstaff, from which flew on rare occasions a ridiculously small Stars and Stripes. At night, the place of the flag was taken by a number of thick copper strands, and simple-minded villagers in the country about reported strange noises, for all the world like the rattling of dried peas in a tin canister. On the evening of a wintry day, many people journeyed up the steep pathway that led to the mansion on the hill. They came singly and in pairs, mostly riding, although one stout man drove up in a little victoria drawn by two panting mules. The last to come was Mr. Baggin, an unpleasant smile on his square face. By the side of his horse trotted a breathless man in a tattered coat, his cropped head bare. "I will show you where to stand," Baggin said. "There is a curtain that covers a door. The man will pass by that curtain, and I shall be with him. I will hold his arm--so. Then I will say, 'Count Poltavo, I do not trust you,' and then----" The ragged man swept the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, for the path was steep. "And then," he grunted, "I will strike." "Surely," warned the other. The man grinned. "I shall not fail," he said significantly. They disappeared into the great house--it is worthy of note that Baggin opened the door with a key of his own--and darkness fell upon the hill and upon the valley. Far away, lights twinkling through the trees showed where Jerez lay. CHAPTER XXIV THE NINE BEARS