less, he was surprised into a laugh which showed his white teeth.
“In Spain,” he said, “no gambit to conversation is known. I might have spoken of the weather, of the crowd, of the King — I chose to voice my faults.”
The priest shook his head, still smiling.
“It is of no importance,” he said quietly, “you are a Pole, of course?”
Silinski stared at him blankly. These Jesuits — strange stories had been told about them. A body with a secret organization, spread over the world — it had been said that they were hand-in-hand with the police.
“I knew you were a Pole; I lived for some time in Poland. Besides, you are only Spanish to your feet,” the Jesuit looked down at Silinski’s boots, “they are not Spanish; they are too short and too heavy.”
Silinski laughed again. After all, this was a confirmation of his views of Jesuits.
“You, my father,” he accused in his turn, “are a teacher; a professor at the college in Madrid; a professor of languages,” he stopped and looked up to the awning that spread above him, seeking inspiration. “A professor of Greek,” he said slowly.
“Arabic,” corrected the other, “but that deduction isn’t clever, because the Jesuits at Madrid are all engaged in scholastic work.”
“But I knew you came from Madrid,” smiled Silinski.
“Because we both came by the same train,” said the calm priest, “and for the same purpose.”
Silinski’s eyes narrowed.
“For what purpose, father?” he asked.
“To witness the eclipse,” said the priest.
A few minutes later, Silinski watched the black-robed figure with the broad-rimmed hat disappearing in the crowd with a little feeling of irritation.
He had not come to Burgos to witness the eclipse of the sun, but because he knew that the phenomenon would attract to the ancient stronghold of the Cid many notabilities. Notabilities were usually rich men, and these Silinski was anxious to meet. A Spanish gentleman, who could speak fluently French, English, German, and Italian, might, if he played his cards well, secure introductions at such a time as this, which ordinarily would be out of his reach. The guarded circles of Paris and London, through which the unknown could not hope to penetrate, would be assailable here.
A stately Spanish grandee (which was Silinski’s role) might call on my lord in Berkeley Square, and receive no happier welcome than the suspicious scrutiny of an under footman. His ability to speak English would not serve him in a city where 6,000,000 of people spoke it indifferently well.
Silinski had come to Burgos as another man might go to a horse fair, in the hope of picking up a bargain; only, in the case of the Pole, it was a human bargain he desired, a profitable investment which he could secure for a hundred pesetas — for that was the exact amount of capital he at the moment controlled.
So with Silinski in Burgos, with crowds hurrying to the hill above the cathedral to witness the eclipse, and with no other actor in this strange drama upon the stage, the story of the Nine Bears begins.
Silinski scrawled a platitude in his notebook — had it been an epigram I would have recorded it — drank the remainder of his cafe au lait, signed to the waiter and paid him the exact amount due. Leaving the outraged servant speechless, he stepped into the stream and was swept up the hill to where a number of English people were gathered, with one eye upon their watches and another upon the livid shadow that lay upon the western sky.
Silinski found a place on the slope of the hill tolerably clear of sightseers, and spread a handkerchief carefully on the bare baked earth and sat down. He had invested a penny in a strip of smoked glass, and through this he peered critically at the sun. The hour of contact was at hand, and he could see the thin rim of the obstruction cover the edge of the glaring ball.
He had all the clever man’s respect for the astuteness of the scientist, and as he waited he wondered by what method astronomers were able to so accurately fortell to the minute, to the second, nay to the thousandth part of a second, the time of eclipse. Perhaps —
“Say, this place will do, it’s not so crowded.”
Silinski looked up at the newcomers.
One was short and stout and breathed stertorously, having recently climbed the hill, the other, the speaker, was tall, well-groomed and unmistakably an American, with his rimless glasses and his square-toed boots.
“Phew!” wheezed the fat man. “Don’t know which was worse, the climb or the crowd.” He tapped his inside pocket apprehensively. “Hate crowds,” he grumbled, “lose things.”
“Have you lost anything?” asked the other. The fat man shook his head, but felt his pocket again. Silinski saw this out of the corner of his eye — inside breast pocket on the left, he noted.
“Baggin,” said the fat man suddenly, “I’ve a feelin’ that we oughtn’t to have come here.”
“You make me tired,” said the American wearily.
“We oughtn’t to be seen together,” persisted the other; “all sorts of people are here, eh? Fellers I know slightly, chaps in the City, eh? They’ll smell a rat.”
He was querulous and worrying, and had a trick of asking for corroboration where none was likely to be offered.
“You’re a fool,” said the other.
There was a long pause, and Silinski knew that the American was making dumb show signals of warning. They were nodding at him, he felt sure, so he raised his hat and asked politely:
“At what hour is the eclipse?”
“No savvy,” said the fat man, “no hablo es-pagnol.”
Silinski shrugged his shoulders, and turned again to the contemplation of the plain below.
“He doesn’t speak English,” said the fat man, “none of these beggars do.”
The American made no reply, but after a silence of a few minutes, he said quietly and in English:
“Look at that balloon.”
But Silinski was too experienced a warrior to be trapped by a simple trick like that, and continued his solid regard of the landscape; besides, he had seen the balloons parked on the outskirts of the town, and knew that intrepid scientists would make the ascent to gather data.
He took another look at the sun. The disc was halfway across its surface, and the west was grey and blue, and the little clouds that flecked the sky were iridescent. Crowds still poured up the hill, and the slope was now covered with people. He had to stand up, and in doing so he found himself side by side with the fat man.
A strange light was coming to the world; there were triple shadows on the ground, and the stout man, whose name was Meyers, shifted uneasily.
“Don’t like this, Baggin,” he said fretfully; “it’s hateful — never did like
