It was a very pleasant prospect for Tom, and no doubt, had he known what was happening, he would have hastened his footsteps, and would have promptly taken measures to ensure his escape. But Tom had important work to do, work which required time and patience. First, there was the envelope to deliver, with the fictitious plans he had drawn, and the wording that told not of Wellington's anticipated attempt of Ciudad Rodrigo, but of his retirement towards Lisbon. In fact, Tom had fabricated a yarn which, if the governor of this fortress believed it, would throw dust in his eyes and aid Wellington's plans enormously. Then there was a tour to be made of the defences, the guns to be located and counted, and any special works recorded on the plan he must draw. Our hero was, indeed, engaged on recognizance work of the utmost importance, work hardly likely to be facilitated by the three grenadiers who were making so hurriedly after him. "The street of St. Angelo," he repeated to himself; "one Francisco." Selecting a lad who was playing in the street, he enquired the way of him. "Up there to the right, then to the left sharp. It's the last street in that direction," he was told, the boy evidently seeing nothing strange about him. Tom promptly took the direction indicated, and, following the turnings in succession, came to the street he was searching for. "Francisco lives at a cabaret at the corner," he reminded himself. "There it is: 'Michael Francisco, dealer in wine.' And there's the fellow himself." A beetle-browed, untidy individual was sitting just within the entrance to the cabaret, warming his toes at a charcoal brazier. From a room within came the sound of voices, the tinkle of a stringed instrument, and the chink of glasses, while from a spot still farther away, perhaps in the back regions of the dwelling, the voice of a scolding woman could be heard, drowning the other sounds completely for some few seconds. Tom looked cautiously about him, and then sauntered up to the door. "One Francisco?" he asked. "Of the street of St. Angelo?" "The same," came the immediate answer, while the proprietor of the place looked him over sharply. "And you?" "Someone with a message from Oporto for you to deal with. Here it is." An exclamation of delight broke from the man, who at once seized the envelope. "You have orders to wait, then, my friend?" he asked. "I have; I shall seek a lodging down the street. To-night I will come for the answer." "Then step inside now and take a glass," the man said promptly. "To-night there shall be an answer. Come, a glass. Ho there, wine!" he shouted. The scolding voice ceased of a sudden, while a woman appeared at the door of a room located at the end of the passage. Some five minutes later she brought a tray containing glasses, and poured wine into two of them. "To our success!" cried Francisco, lifting his glass and speaking significantly.