Constable Mulligan excused himself. “I mustn’t be away from the station any longer. Now you’ve been introduced you can get along without me. You know where to find me if you want me again.” And, thanked and rewarded by Ellery, the constable returned to his duty, after putting a hand affectionately on the old man’s shoulder by way of farewell.
Joan and Ellery between them told the Spaniard the full story of their quest, first as they walked towards Trafalgar Square, and then leaning over the very parapet over which Walter Brooklyn had leaned. The Spaniard heard them through, only inclining his head every now and then to show that he fully appreciated some particular point in the narrative. Finally, Ellery produced the photograph of Walter Brooklyn, and asked the old man whether he had seen the original on Tuesday night.
“A fine figure of a gentleman,” said the Spaniard, “and, indeed, I know him well by sight, though hitherto I have been denied the honour of knowing his name. Often have I seen him in Pall Mall.”
“Yes, but did you see him on Tuesday?” Joan could not help interrupting.
The Spaniard’s way of continuing was in itself a mild and courteous reproof. “Often, my friends, have I seen him, little deeming that one day my memory of him might be of service to others.” And then he added, “Yes, I saw him here on Tuesday—here, on this very spot to which I have led you. Here he stopped and lighted a cigar. I noted that he lighted it from the stump of another.”
“That was because he had no matches,” said Joan excitedly. “That bears out what he said.”
“Madam, if it would not incommode you, might I crave your permission to smoke even now?” Joan readily gave it, and the old man deftly rolled a cigarette with strong black tobacco from a battered metal case.
“Can you tell us at what time you saw him?” said Ellery.
“Ah, time. Why should I mark the hours? What need have I to know? It was evening.”
“But what you tell us is of no use unless you can say what time it was.”
“Alas, if I had but known, my watch should never have gone—the way of all watches.” A faint flicker of a smile, and an extraordinarily expressive gesture, accompanied the phrase. It was as if all watches had a mysterious knack of vanishing into infinite space. “But, nevertheless, another’s memory may serve where mine fails. For I was not alone.”
“Who was with you? Can we find him?”
“I will find him for you; but not till evening. And meantime, I will seek for those who may have seen Mr. Brooklyn in Whitehall. If any can find such a man, I can find him. There is a fraternity among us who wander under the sky. We remark what passes around us; for we have no affairs of our own to disturb our minds.” He turned to Ellery. “It would be well that you should leave the photograph with me until evening. Then we will meet again.”
An appointment was made for Trafalgar Square at eleven o’clock that same night. The old man would not meet them sooner, or elsewhere. Joan could not leave Sir Vernon at that hour; but Ellery would come. In parting, she thanked the Spaniard for all that he had done.
“What can a man do better than come to the aid of ladies in distress? Truly, as the poet says, ‘He enlargeth his heart who doeth his neighbour a kindness.’ The word I have rendered ‘neighbour’ is feminine in the Spanish,” he added, half to himself.
“What a queer old bird!” said Ellery, as they walked away. “It was difficult to keep it up while we were talking to him; but it was well worth while.”
“I think he’s a dear,” said Joan. “A bit queer, of course; but see how he’s helping us. We could never have done anything without him.”
“He’s quite off his chump, that’s clear. But he seems to be quite all there when it’s a question of getting something done. We’re meeting some queer people on this job.”
“Who do you suppose he is?” asked Joan.
“Nothing on earth, if you mean how does he get his living. I should say he was just what they call a character, picking up somehow barely enough to exist on, and drifting about with nothing in particular to do. He probably drinks, or has been in trouble somehow.”
“I don’t care what trouble he’s been in. He fascinates me. And he’s obviously an educated man.”
“Yes, I dare say he was quite the gentleman—in the orthodox sense—years ago. Now he is one of the bottom dogs, keeping up his self-respect by playing the hidalgo.”
“Don’t you suppose he’s really a Spaniard?”
“No more than you or I. He’s probably been in Spain. That’s all. But, whoever he is, he seems likely to get us just the information we want, and that’s what we really care about. Only I feel inclined to introduce him to my night watchman at Piccadilly. They would make a pretty pair. They are both hero-worshippers.”
XXII
The Spaniard Does His Bit
Ellery met the Spaniard in accordance with his appointment in Trafalgar Square that evening. As he approached, he saw the old man pacing up and down the pavement in front of the National Gallery, walking slowly with a dignity and grace worthy of some grandee of the olden times. He was curiously like the Lavery portrait of Cunninghame Graham. The Spaniard made Ellery a low bow, accompanied by a sweeping gesture with his broad-brimmed hat; and Ellery, doing his best to live up to the occasion, returned the salutation with a very inferior grace.
“You have news for me?” he asked.
“If you will do me the honour of accompanying me in my promenade, I think I may be
