Callao tossed about from one side of the bed to the other. His pillows were hot. He was wretched; unhappy.
Also, he thought, he was unlucky. In a few days he was to leave England— this cold, desolate and rather grim country— to go back to his own beloved Spain, where the sun shone. Why had he not gone earlier? Why had he waited for this? Callao, who was superstitious, saw some grim hand of fate behind his meeting with Aurora Francis.
He stiffened. He heard a sound in the flat. There was the sound of a door shutting quietly. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. He sat up in bed. He heard steps in the long sitting-room outside— quiet steps. Then the door in the iron lattice between the end of the sitting-room and his bedroom opened.
Kiernan stood in the doorway. He wore a short leath
