He knew an English couple living in Madrid, old connections of his mother; he was sure they would willingly take in Isobel as a boarder. They were not rich people, only just in comfortable circumstances, they were elderly and childless. They would welcome a young girl as a member of their household.
He would go to Madrid to-morrow and interview them. And he could kill two birds with one stone while he was there.
He interviewed the elderly couple; they would be delighted to receive Miss Clandon.
Afterwards, in response to a letter received at the Embassy, Guy Rossett met the young journalist in the same obscure restaurant in Madrid, where he had met him previously.
“Things are humming a bit, eh?” queried Moreno, as they sat at a small table, quaffing a bottle of light wine.
“Looks like it,” answered Rossett, speaking with the usual English phlegm. “I’ve had some very important information over to-day.”
“Most of which, I expect, has been supplied by me, not but what I admit there are two or three very good men out on the job.” Moreno was dreadfully conceited, but he could be generous when he chose. He would sometimes allow that there were other people who might be—well, nearly as clever as himself.
“Well, Moreno, you wanted to see me. I take it, you have a reason?”
“Of course I have. I know you ultimately hear everything from headquarters. But that takes time, and I am on the spot.”
“I know all that,” said Rossett. “Besides, I have instructions from headquarters to keep in touch with you, because you are on the spot.”