It was about half-past six on the evening following the interview between Moreno and Farquhar that Maceda, grave, upright, and dignified, looking younger than his fifty years, stood near the entrance door of the small restaurant, awaiting the arrival of early diners.
He was one of the old-fashioned type of restaurant keepers who kept a vigilant eye on his subordinates, went round to every table, inquiring of his patrons if they were well served. In short, he made his customers his friends.
Through the open doors entered Andres Moreno. He lunched and dined at a dozen different places, but usually twice a week he went to Maceda’s. The cuisine was French, to suit all tastes, but there were always some special Spanish dishes, to oblige those who were still Spaniards at heart.
The pair were old friends. Moreno extended his hand.
“How goes it, Maceda? But it always goes well with you. You look after your patrons so well.”
For a few moments the two men conversed in Spanish, which Moreno, through his father, could speak perfectly. Then, after a pause, the journalist spoke a single word—it was a password, that Maceda understood instantly.
A sudden light came into the proprietor’s eyes. He smiled genially, but gravely, as was his wont.
“So you are with us, at last,” he said. “A thousand welcomes, my friend. We want men like you. I was told there would be a new member to-night, but the name was not divulged. This way.”
The restaurant keeper led him up a narrow staircase—the house was a very old one—to a big room on the second floor. A long table stood in the middle of the apartment, on which were set bowls of flowers and dishes of fruit. Moreno looked around gratefully. As far as creature comforts went, he was going to have a pleasant evening. Maceda was evidently going to do his best.
Maceda pointed to a little side-room.