The Saint was motionless for a moment, and then he took another cigarette. He couldn't have explained himself what it was that had struck that sudden new crispness into his nerves — it was as if he was trying to make his conscious mind catch up with a spurt of intuition that had outdistanced it.
"You told me that Ingleston had been abroad recently," he said. "Would he have been likely to go to Spain?"
"I expect so. He'd been sent there several times before. He spoke Spanish very well, you see—"
"Did he have a lot of Spanish friends?"
"I don't know."
"He had one anyway — there was a signed photograph inscribed in Spanish on his mantelpiece. Did you ever hear of Luis Quintana?"
"No."
"He's a representative that the Spanish Rebels sent over a few weeks ago…"
Simon jumped up and moved restlessly across the room. There was a fierce drive of energy in the restrained movements of his limbs that had to reach some hidden objective quickly or burn itself to exhaustion.
"Sherry," he said. "Spain. Spanish Rebels. American bearer bonds. And mysterious Pongos cutting loose with hammers and popguns. There must be something to mix them together and make soup."