A Hero for Leanda

intrigued him enormously. The slight cloak-and-dagger atmosphere was stimulating. He felt no serious worry about the possibility of danger, since he was not yet committed to anything. For a long while he speculated, enjoyably but fruitlessly, on what the proposition might be. There was so little to go on that he couldn’t even make a wild guess. But he continued to mull over it through most of the hot night.

    In the morning he put his affairs in order. It still seemed worth while to try and get some of Tara ’s contents back, so he kept his appointment with the contractor and agreed on a figure for the salvage attempt, which he paid. He called at the Air France office and gave his passport particulars, and afterward he went on a shopping spree and re-equipped himself. By three o’clock, when the plane took off, he looked and felt a new man.
    In the air, his sense of excitement grew. He had never flown before, and he found it exhilarating. Rushing north across French West Africa gave him an unaccustomed feeling of importance, as though the speed of the aircraft were in some way related to his mission. By the time he reached Paris , he could almost believe that he was engaged on vital business. In Tara he had never felt that anything was particularly vital, except to make a landfall in the end. He enjoyed the contrast. He enjoyed the change in the weather, too. In Paris it was hot for September, but Conway found it deliciously cool and dry after the close humidity of Accra . Even Biarritz felt cool when he arrived there on the second evening. He checked in at the Superbe, where a balconied room overlooking the sea had been reserved for him. So far, he reflected, his way could scarcely have been smoother if he had been a visiting potentate. He took a shower, had a leisurely drink in the open-air bar outside the hotel, and dined in sybaritic luxury. Afterward he strolled through the gay, glittering streets, seeing as much of the place as he could in case his visit should be short. At ten minutes to nine he sought directions for Biarritz Ville station, and at nine he was standing at the foot of the lift with a copy of Figaro held prominently in his left hand. He had scarcely time to glance around him before a short, burly man approached. “Mr. Conway?” he asked. Conway nodded. “Please!” said the man, and led the way out through the swinging doors. A shiny limousine stood empty at the curb. The man opened the rear door, and Conway climbed in and sank down on the plushy seat.
    In a few seconds they were out of the town and running north at high speed along the main coast road. Conway could see little from the car except a confusion of lights, but at some point on the route his eye was caught by a signpost that said “Frontière, 23.” That would be the Spanish border, of course. It made him wonder. Was it, perhaps, some smuggling enterprise he was expected to take part in?—or was the proximity of the frontier just an accident? He thought of asking the chauffeur where they were making for, but it seemed hardly worth while. He’d know before long, anyway—and whatever sort of ride he was being taken on, he had no choice but to go through with it now. He sat back. The car sped smoothly on. Very soon they were entering another small town—St.-Jean-de-Luz, the sign said. Almost at once they stopped. Conway caught the glint of water, and against the lights of the surrounding buildings he saw what appeared to be the masts of fishing vessels. The car had pulled up close beside some inner harbor. As he got out another man approached, nodding to the chauffeur. He was wearing a white-topped cap and a white uniform, and looked like a very smart ship’s officer. “Quickly, sir, if you please,” he said, in an accent that reminded Conway of Venizelos. Conway followed him to the quayside, where an expensive-looking launch lay motionless under the wall. As Conway stepped down, a second uniformed officer touched an engine switch, and in a matter of seconds they were away, passing under a bridge and out of the inner basin. Beyond, there was another basin, leading in turn to a spacious outer harbor. The launch put on speed. Behind them, the town rose splendidly in a great amphitheater of light. Ahead, Conway could make out the masthead lamps and gleaming ports of a ship at anchor. Soon it took shape as a large steam yacht. The launch glided alongside. A white-coated steward was waiting at the top of the steps to usher the