"I see," I replied. "Morano had a German mother."
I was interested. There might be nothing in it, of course. A noble of
Spain might have a German mother and still not intrigue for the
Germans against the owners of Gibraltar. But no sane man would take a
bet about it.
"The point is," said Slingsby, "I am pretty sure that is not the card
which he sent in to me when he came to ask about a launch. We will go
straight to the office and make sure."
By the time we got there we were both somewhat excited, and we
searched feverishly in the drawers of Slingsby's writing-table.
"I shouldn't be such an ass as to throw it away," he said, turning
over his letters. "No! Here it is!" and a sharp exclamation burst from
his lips.
"Look!"
He laid the card he had stolen side by side with the card which he had
just found, and between the two there was a difference--to both of us
a veritable world of difference. For from the second card the "y
Goltz," the evidence that Morano was half-German, had disappeared.
"And it's not engraved," said Slingsby, bending down over the table.
"It's just printed--printed in order to mislead us."
Slingsby sat down in his chair. A great hope was bringing the life
back to his tired face, but he would not give the reins to his hope.
"Let us go slow," he said, warned by the experience of a hundred
disappointments. "Let us see how it works out. Morano comes to
Gibraltar and makes a prolonged stay in a hotel. Not being a fool, he
is aware that I know who is in Gibraltar and who is not. Therefore he
visits me with a plausible excuse for being in Gibraltar. But he takes
the precaution to have this card specially printed. Why, if he is
playing straight? He pretends he wants a launch, but he is really
devoting himself to aviation. Is it possible that the Count Morano,
not forgetting Goltz, knows exactly how the good Peiffer spent the six
hours we can't account for, and what his little plan is?"
I sprang up. It did seem that Slingsby was getting at last to the
heart of Peiffer's secret.
"We will now take steps," said Slingsby, and telegrams began to fly
over the wires. In three days' time the answers trickled in.
An agent of Morano's had bought a German aeroplane in Lisbon. A German
aviator was actually at the hotel there. Slingsby struck the table
with his fist.
"What a fool I am!" he cried. "Give me a newspaper."
I handed him one of that morning's date. Slingsby turned it feverishly
over, searching down the columns of the provincial news until he came
to the heading "Portugal."
"Here it is!" he cried, and he read aloud. "'The great feature of the
Festival week this year will be, of course, the aviation race from
Villa Real to Seville. Amongst those who have entered machines is the
Count Morano y Goltz.'"
He leaned back and lit a cigarette.
"We have got it! Morano's machine, driven by the German aviator, rises
from the aerodrome at Villa Real in Portugal with the others, heads
for Seville, drops behind, turns and makes a bee-line for the Rock,
Peiffer having already arranged with Morano for signals to be made
where bombs should be dropped. When is the race to be?"