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Updated: June 1, 2025
"Yes. It may be that I shall find health." "Yes, yes. So your friends will pray," returned the Commandant, falling into Hillyard's pace. "The telegram we sent for you " Marnier began. "Yes!" "There is an answer already. Your friend is unhurt. I have brought you a copy. I thought that perhaps I might catch you before your train started."
He was moving from solitude into solitude still more silent and remote. It was impossible. Hillyard's eyes were playing him false. He shut them for an instant and opened them again, thinking that the vision would have gone. But there was the Arab still nearer to them and moving with a swift agility.
"You need not have been so anxious to spare me. Harry is coming here this afternoon." She saw the incredulity flicker in Hillyard's eyes, but she did not mind. "Yes," she asserted. "He goes down this evening to a camp in the New Forest where his battalion is waiting to go to France. He starts at six from Waterloo. He promised to run in here first." Hillyard looked at the clock.
Supper was half through when Escobar leaned suddenly forward. "Mr. Hillyard, I have seen you before, somewhere and not in England." "That is possible." "In Spain?" "Yes," answered Hillyard. A certain curiosity in Escobar's voice, a certain reticence in Hillyard's, arrested the attention of those about. "Let me see!" continued Escobar.
"Well, upon my word," cried Hardiman, "you are the coolest hand at it I ever saw." But he could have taken back his words the next moment. In spite of Hillyard's aloof and disinterested air, the night had brought its excitement and in a strength of which he himself was unaware. It lifted now the veils behind which a man will hide his secret thoughts!
At six o'clock on the second morning after Hillyard's visit to Barcelona, the steam-yacht Dragonfly swept round the point of La Dragonera and changed her course to the south-east. She steamed with a following breeze over a sea of darkest sapphire which broke in sparkling cascades of white and gold against the rocky creeks and promontories on the ship's port side.
"There's our man," he exclaimed, and running downstairs, he reached the door just as Hillyard's twelve camels and his donkeys trooped into the light. Hillyard was riding bareheaded, with his helmet looped to his saddle, a young man, worn thin by sun and exercise, with fair burnt hair, and a brown clean shaven face. Colin Rayne went up to him as he dismounted.
Hillyard's holiday was coming to an end, for in a month the rainy season would begin and this great park become a marsh. He went fluctuating between an excited eagerness for a renewal of rivalry and the interchange of ideas and the companionship of women; and a reluctance to leave a country which had so restored him to physical well-being. Never had he been so strong.
That reserve, that intense reserve of the Spaniard who so seldom admits another into real intimacy, and makes him acquainted with his private life, was down now. Hillyard had won. José Medina's house and his chattels were in earnest at Martin Hillyard's disposal.
"Dennis Brown, Harold Jupp" Joan began, puzzled by his question, yet welcoming it as so much delay. "I don't want to hear about them," Mario Escobar replied. "Tell me of the new-comers!" "Martin Hillyard " Joan began again, and was aware that Mario Escobar made a quick startled movement and gasped. Martin Hillyard's name was a pail of cold water for Escobar.
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