In response to close questions put to me by Señor Andrade, with whom was Señor Rivero, the head of the Detective Branch, I gave a description of my midnight visitor as accurately as I could. I told them how I had covered him with my automatic pistol, and how afterwards we had laughed together at our mental fear of each other. Señor Rivero, the bald-headed, black-bearded chief of the branch of criminal investigation, suddenly stopped me when I mentioned the scar upon the neck of the advocate from Burgos. "Did you notice that there was any deformity of his hands?" he asked quickly. In an instant I recollected that the little finger of his right hand had been amputated at the first joint, and I told him so. "Ah!" exclaimed the shrewd, dark-bearded official. "Perhaps we may here find something of interest. Just a few moments," and he rose and left us. We chatted with Señor Andrade for about a quarter of an hour when the detective returned with a bundle of papers and four photographs of a man taken in police style upon one negative, full face, three-quarter, half and profile. The instant he placed it before me, I exclaimed: "Why, that is Salavera!" "I thought as much," remarked the famous detective with a grim smile. "He is not Salavera, but Rodriquez Despujol, one of the most dangerous criminals in Spain!" "Despujol!" cried Señor Andrade. "And he was in Madrid last night!" Then he added: "Ah! if we had but known." "True. But why was he in the English gentleman's room?" queried the detective. "He is a dangerous character, and one would have thought that instead of being covered he would, on being cornered, have drawn his knife and attacked his adversary." "Despujol is no amateur," the Chief of Police agreed. "We've wanted him for the last five years for the assassination of the banker, Monteros, in the train between Cordova and Malaga, and yet he always evades us, even though he is one of the most audacious thieves in Europe." "But his friend Pedro?" I remarked, startled at what I had now learned. "He does not exist," replied the detective. "You no doubt had a lucky escape. Had you demanded to see his friend he would no doubt have killed you. He is a man of colossal strength--a veritable tiger, they say." "But what was the motive?" I asked. "I have no valuables, save my watch and tie pin, and fifty pounds in English money. Surely it was not worth while to kill me for that!" "No. That's just it," replied the dark-eyed detective, whose chagrin was so apparent that Despujol had slipped through his fingers. "The game was not worth the candle. So he returned after proving to you his bona fides. And these bona fides he always carries in order to extricate himself from any ugly situation." "But the carpet pins?" asked the hotel manager. The director of the Spanish secret police shrugged his shoulders, and said: