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trouble,” he pursued; “and I agree that the Bank of Scotland are about the last people in the world to slip up. But if the sum was of any size there would have to be special permission for the transfer, and to obtain that reasons would have to be given. I think I might be able to find out what those reasons were. It certainly wouldn’t be given for hawking oranges!”
    â€œI wish you wouldn’t use words like ‘obtain’,” said Julia petulantly.
    â€œOh, darling, what a clown you are! Don’t you see that I may be able to help you in this lunatic search-party of yours?” the young man said, reaching for her hand across the table.
    Many hands, and often, are held in the Oviedo—Julia was not in the least embarrassed, and suffered poor Mr. Consett to ciasp, and even to kiss, her long fingers with their glistening pale pink-tips. Satisfied for the moment—and the waiter arriving with a fresh dish—the young man returned to the subject of her journey, in a more tranquil spirit.
    â€œWhere are you sailing to, on your cargo cockleshell?” he asked.
    â€œTangier—it seems to be the only place boats stop at, going that way. And it’s quite a good jumping-off place for all the rest, I gather.”
    â€œAn excellent one; and a most darling place in itself—like Glentoran,” he said, smiling his rather unexpectedly warm smile. “They’re doing some very interesting bits of excavation there, too.”
    â€œWhat sort? Neolithic?” Julia knew very little about archaeology, but her prolonged acquaintance with Geoffrey Consett had resulted in her having to hear a good deal about it, and she had picked up some of the words.
    â€œNo, no—Roman, and some possible Phoenician too; old La Besse has been working on a fascinating site which is undoubtedly Roman on the top storey, so to speak, but shows signs of Phoenician stuff below that. The amusing thing is that it seems to have been a factory.”
    â€œA factory? Goodness, what on earth of?”
    â€œWine, oil, and they think salt fish—there are pits that suggest fish-pickling more than anything else.” He suddenly became enthusiastic. “You ought to see all that, Julia—I envy you going off there now. Look out for old La Besse.”
    â€œWho’s he?”
    â€œIt’s not a he, it’s a she. An immensely old Belgian lady with a beard! And she sticks at it—she’s out on that site dayafter day, with her rag-time team of Berber labourers, for six or seven hours at a time.”
    â€œWhen were you there?” Julia asked—“I never heard about all this.”
    â€œOh, last winter,” said Mr. Consett, trying unsuccessfully not to look too conscious. Last winter had been during the period when he was sulking after being refused by Julia. “She’s tremendous fun,” he went on rather hastily—“and all that stretch of coast is simply stuffed with Phoenician graves, too.”
    â€œWhat are they like?” Julia enquired, less out of any particular interest in Phoenician graves than from a good-natured desire to co-operate in covering up the embarrassment about last winter.
    â€œDug out of the rock, I believe, I never saw much of them—I hadn’t time. They’re mostly rifled; the Berbers go at them like mad.”
    â€œWhat on earth for?”
    â€œOh, the jewellery. Exquisite golden things turn up sometimes.”
    â€œHow enchanting!” said Julia; her eyes shone, kindled by the thought of jewellery in any form. “I’d love to see those.”
    â€œI’ll give you a letter of introduction to Mme La Besse,” said the young man—“I’ll air-mail it to Tangier. Where shall you be staying, by the way?”
    â€œThe Villa Espagnola—moderate, but Cook’s say the food and beds are all right.”
    Mr. Consett jotted the address down.
    â€œThere are other