memory, and I let the powerful machine “all out.” Travelling at considerably over fifty miles an hour, with the engine pulling as smoothly as a watch, I first went along the winding sea road, then away into the fertile valley of the Oria and by the village of Aguinaga, down to Zarauz, which was on the Biscayan beach again.
The early morning came, balmy and beautiful, as, covered with dust, I shot down the steep winding road into the chief centre of the life of Santander, that spacious promenade known as “The Muelle,” with its luxuriant gardens, from which I could see the blue mountain ranges of Solares, Valnera, and Tornos beyond.
Once in the gardens, I dismounted, and, watching for an opportunity when I was unobserved, I wheeled the motor-cycle into some low bushes, where I abandoned it. Thence I strolled down to the dock, where in a narrow, unclean street I soon found a dealer in second-hand clothes, of whom I purchased a most unsavoury rig-out. It was evident that the man was well used to proceedings of this kind, and, as his business quite clearly depended upon his knowing how to hold his tongue if he were paid for it, I paid him generously, and was quite assured my secret would be safe with him. He took me into a dark little den at the rear of his stuffy shop, where he helped me into my disreputable disguise, adding here and there a skilful touch which showed me plainly that he was no novice at the business.
Arranging with him to keep my own clothes until I called again, I sallied forth, quite confident that I had effectually destroyed all traces of my identity, and evaded the men who had been watching me at San Sebastian. To further my plans I bought in the market a basket such as street hawkers carry and a quantity of oranges.
Having done this, I sought out a quiet corner, and, sitting down on the pavement, began eating some bread and olives I had bought, just as any other equally disreputable Spanish pedlar might have done. I could hardly help laughing at the incongruity of my surroundings – Gerald Sant, to whom pretty well every fashionable hotel in Europe was intimately familiar, taking his breakfast of bread and olives seated on the pavement in a Santander slum.
But my breakfast was only a part of the work I had to do. Taking a cigarette from my case, I carefully slit it open, threw away the tobacco, and wrote a message upon the paper. Then, rolling the thin scrap, I placed it within a quill toothpick, plugging the sharpened end with a scrap of orange peel. Afterwards I inserted the quill into the centre of one of the oranges, carefully covering up the puncture and drying it. Inside the quill was the translation, for Madame Gabrielle’s benefit, of the “Fontan” cable.
Then, in the guise of a poor fruit-seller, I sought out the hotel in the Calle Mendez where I knew that Madame Gabrielle had arrived. I knew, of course, that she would be eagerly on the look-out for me, and that, as she would guess I should be disguised, she would station herself in some prominent place, where I could see her at once.
Evidently, however, she did not expect me so soon. No doubt she had looked up the trains, and, knowing that I must have missed the last one the previous night, would naturally conclude that I would arrive about midday. The stratagem of the bicycle had evidently not occurred to her.
I drifted slowly backwards and forwards in front of the hotel, and after a time had the intense satisfaction of seeing the “Italian,” Signor Bruno, come lazily out and seat himself in a comfortable chair in the ample porch. It was obvious that he was expecting someone, for his eyes constantly searched the long, straight roadway.
A moment later Madame Gabrielle, daintily attired in the latest Parisian mode and carrying a sunshade, strolled leisurely into the porch. She was accompanied by a lady, obviously Spanish, with whom she had no doubt scraped a breakfast-table acquaintance.
Despite the need for hurry, I could not help being amused at her evident failure to recognise me. Twice or three times I slouched past the hotel. The next time I caught her eye, and, as I made the almost imperceptible signal, I saw the answering flash of intelligence in her eyes.
“What lovely oranges!” I heard her say to her companion. “I really must have some.”
And she rose indolently and came down the steps to me. As if I had heard and understood nothing, I placed myself directly in her path, saying in a loud, whining voice in Spanish: “Buy some Naranjàs, lady – do buy some. Very fine Naranjàs.”
Taking out her purse, Madame Gabrielle handed me a coin, and, as she did so, swung her sunshade round so as to interpose it directly between the “Italian” and myself. With the coin came a tiny folded note, which passed so swiftly into my hands that there was no prospect of the “Italian” observing it.
“What beautiful fruit!” she said aloud; adding in a faint whisper: “Be near the fountain in the gardens in half an hour.”
“Thank you, lady,” I whined in Spanish in true hawker fashion, handing her the oranges. As I did so, I tapped one of them three times, taking care that she observed the action. It was enough for her swift intelligence.
The next moment, touching my battered hat in respect, I slouched off, my basket on my arm, while she, apparently a summer visitor, carried the fresh-cut fruit, each with a leaf attached, just as dozens of others were doing when out for a walk before luncheon.
I watched her return to the hotel, of course, to examine her oranges. Lazily drifting along the road, I made my way to the gardens, and was soon stretched indolently in the sunshine within easy sight of the great fountain. Under cover of my battered hat I read Madame Gabrielle’s tiny note. It had evidently been written to be ready for a hurried meeting, and ran:
“They will meet to-night on the coast road a mile out of the town near the big oak. Bruno and Fontan will be there at ten-thirty. The attempt is to be made shortly. I dare not risk speaking.”
But it was essential we should speak, and I had my plan cut and dried.
When Madame Gabrielle came in sight, I was startled to see the “Italian” following her. Could his suspicions have been aroused, I wondered? Hitherto Madame Gabrielle had been shadowing him; were the positions now reversed? I noticed she looked pale and anxious; it was evident something untoward had occurred.
Long before, we had taught ourselves to send messages in the Morse code by finger movements, the raising or dropping of a finger representing the dots and dashes of the code. Thus so long as we could see each other’s hands we could communicate rapidly and silently; failing direct sight, we had only to tap out the message. Gabrielle seated herself negligently on a seat and produced a book, which she read industriously, quite unconscious to all seeming of the disreputable fruit-seller lying asleep on the grass, his face shaded from the hot sun by his broad-brimmed hat. The “Italian,” in the meantime, had seated himself on a seat a few yards away.
Whether he suspected me I do not know; probably not. But beneath the brim of my hat I could see Madame Gabrielle’s delicate hand and arm flung carelessly across the back of the seat. Her fingers, screened from the Italian’s sight, rapidly ticked out their message.
“I got your note; it confirms what I have found out. The attempt is to be made to-morrow night. Bruno has been talking with a dark, sailor-looking man who, I think, must be Fontan. I overheard them from the balcony outside their room. I suppose I must have made some sound, for Bruno came out hurriedly on to the balcony. He looked as if he could kill me, and ever since he has been following me. I dare not attempt to follow him when he leaves the hotel this evening. The arrangement may be a blind; you must watch him all you can. I will risk everything to get a message to you if I hear any more, but I am afraid I can do no good now.”
“You have done very well,” I signalled back. “Go to the hotel and get on the ’phone to the British Consul. Tell him to recall Jeans by wireless at once for instant action. I shall stake everything on to-night. After that, go straight back to San Sebastian, and let it be
