"To-night," said Hillyard.
Lopez Baeza lifted his hands in deprecation.
"Yes. I can take you to his house—now. But, señor, Ramon is a poor man. He lives in a little narrow street."
Hillyard looked quietly at Lopez Baeza. He had found men on the Mediterranean littoral whom he could trust with his life and everything that was his. But a good working principle was to have not overmuch faith in any one. A noisome little street in the lower quarters of Barcelona—who could tell what might happen after one had plunged into it?
"I will come with you," he said.
"Good," said Lopez. "I will go on ahead." And once more Hillyard's quiet eyes rested upon Baeza's face. "It is not wise that we should walk out together. There is no one here, it is true, but in the chairs outside the cafés—who shall say?"
"Yes. You go on ahead," Hillyard agreed. "That is wise."
Lopez rose.
"Give me five minutes, señor. Then down the Rambla. The second turning to the right, beyond the Opera House. You will see me at the corner. When you see me, follow!"
Hillyard rose and shook hands cordially with Lopez Baeza with the air of a man who might never see his friend again for years. Baeza commended him to God and went out of the restaurant on to the lighted footway.