I lay and listened. Outside I heard the hum of a car receding across the great square. Afterwards a church bell began to clang discordantly, as they all do in Spain.
The light was over the dressing-table in the corner, and so shaded that the room was quite dim.
Someone had been in my room! I grasped my automatic pistol which I kept under the pillow, and jumping out of bed crossed to the dressing-table where I had put my watch and bank-note-case on taking them from my pocket. As I did so I heard the click of an electric light switch, and next instant the room was in darkness.
For a second I was nonplussed. I knew, however, that I was not alone in the room, so I dashed across to the door, my pistol in my hand, and gaining it before the intruder could escape, turned on the lights.
Before me stood revealed a tall, thin-faced, dark-haired man in his shirt and trousers who, seeing my pistol, at once put up his hands, crying in Spanish:
“Ah! no—no! It is a mistake. Holy Madonna! I have mistaken the room! I thought my friend Pedro was here! A thousand apologies, señor! A thousand apologies.”
“But my door was bolted! How did you get in?” I demanded fiercely.
“No, señor. It was not bolted. I have been taken very unwell. I was seeking my friend Pedro,” he stammered, pale and frightened. “Come to my room, and I will show you my papers to prove that I am no thief, but a well-known advocate of Burgos.”
I told him roughly to turn his face to the wall while I went through my belongings to satisfy myself that nothing had been stolen.