away.

The constables of Vilray had twice visited the Manor to arrest him that
day, but they had been led in another direction by a clue which he had
provided; and afterwards in the dusk he had doubled back and hid himself
under Jean Jacques' roof. He had very important business at the Manor
Cartier.

Jean Jacques' voice ceased one song, and then, after a silence, it took
up another, not so melodious. Sebastian Dolores had impatiently waited
for this later "musicale" to begin--he had heard it often before; and
when it was at last a regular succession of nasal explosions, he crawled
out and began to do the business which had brought him to the Manor
Cartier.

He did it all alone and with much skill; for when he was an anarchist in
Spain, those long years ago, he had learned how to use tools with expert
understanding. Of late, Spain had been much in his mind. He wanted to
go back there. Nostalgia had possessed him ever since he had come again
to the Manor Cartier after Zoe had left. He thought much of Spain, and
but little of his daughter. Memory of her was only poignant, in so far
as it was associated with the days preceding the wreck of the Antoine.
He had had far more than enough of the respectable working life of the
New World; but there never was sufficient money to take him back to
Europe, even were it safe to go. Of late, however, he felt sure that he
might venture, if he could only get cash for the journey. He wanted to
drift back to the idleness and adventure and the "easy money" of the old
anarchist days in Cadiz and Madrid. He was sick for the patio and the
plaza, for the bull-fight, for the siesta in the sun, for the lazy
glamour of the gardens and the red wine of Valladolid, for the redolent