From behind a big cigar Berry was slowly enumerating the accessories without which, to make life worth living, no car should ever take the road, when the door opened and a servant, bearing a salver, entered the room.
Stopping for an instant to switch on the light, the man stepped to my brother-in-law.
For a moment Berry glanced at the card. Then—
"English," he said. "'Mr. Hubert Weston Hallilay, 44 Calle de Serrano, Madrid.' Better have him in, hadn't we?" He turned to the servant and nodded. "Ask him to come in," he said.
The servant bowed and withdrew.
A moment later a fair-haired boy, perhaps twenty-three years old, was ushered into the room.
He greeted us respectfully, but with an open-hearted delight which he made no attempt to conceal.
"How d'you do? I'm most awfully glad to see you. Officially, I'm here by request. The comic mayor got hold of me. He's worried to death because he can't converse with you. I don't suppose you mind, but it's shortening his life. I've had a fearful time with him. There are about a thousand things he wants to know, and he's commissioned me to find them out without asking any questions. That, he says, would be most rude. Unofficially, I'm—well, I'm at your service. If I'd known you were coming, I'd have been here before. I'm attached to Madrid, really, but I'm putting in six weeks here—for my sins."
"You're very kind," said Berry. "Incidentally, you're a godsend—the second we've had to-day. The first, I may say, lies in five feet of water on a particularly blasted mountain-side. But don't be disconcerted. We shouldn't think of drowning you. For one thing, you're much too valuable. And now sit down, and have some cold coffee and a glass of kummel."
As he sank into a seat—