He silently said good-bye to his dream, the fair dream of the future which was to be glorified by Isobel Clandon's gracious presence. "So that is all over. Well, Isobel, I hope you will always allow me to be your very good friend." She reached out her hand impulsively and laid it on his. "Oh, yes, please, Maurice. You will always be a dear, kind brother, won't you?" "Perhaps some day I may be able to help you. I have just learned there is some danger threatening Guy Rossett." Her face blanched. She turned to him an imploring glance. "Danger threatening Guy. Oh, please tell me, quickly." With a bitter pang, he realised in that anguished utterance a full sense of the love which he had lost, of the youthful heart which he had allowed another man to capture. In a few brief sentences, he told her what Moreno had related to him. CHAPTER FIVE. At the period at which this story opens, there stood in Gerrard Street, Soho, a small, unpretentious restaurant, frequented almost exclusively by foreigners. Over the front was written the name of Maceda. Luis Maceda, a tall, grave man of dignified aspect, with carefully trimmed beard and moustache, was the proprietor. He was a Spaniard, with the suave and courteous manners of that picturesque nation. The majority of his customers were his compatriots. The few Englishmen who found their way there spoke highly of him and the cuisine. At the same time, one or two of the prominent officials of the Secret Service kept a wary eye upon Maceda and his friends. It was about half-past six on the evening following the interview between Moreno and Farquhar that Maceda, grave, upright, and dignified, looking younger than his fifty years, stood near the entrance door of the small restaurant, awaiting the arrival of early diners. He was one of the old-fashioned type of restaurant keepers who kept a vigilant eye on his subordinates, went round to every table, inquiring of his patrons if they were well served. In short, he made his customers his friends. Through the open doors entered Andres Moreno. He lunched and dined at a dozen different places, but usually twice a week he went to Maceda's. The cuisine was French, to suit all tastes, but there were always some special Spanish dishes, to oblige those who were still Spaniards at heart. The pair were old friends. Moreno extended his hand. "How goes it, Maceda? But it always goes well with you. You look after your patrons so well." For a few moments the two men conversed in Spanish, which Moreno, through his father, could speak perfectly. Then, after a pause, the journalist spoke a single word--it was a password, that Maceda understood instantly. A sudden light came into the proprietor's eyes. He smiled genially, but gravely, as was his wont. "So you are with us, at last," he said. "A thousand welcomes, my friend. We want men like you. I was told there would be a new member to-night, but the name was not divulged. This way."