They pulled up at the restaurant, and Stone and Allison got out so that Thomas could park the car. An American-looking man was seated at the bar, drinking what looked like a gin and tonic; his suit and briefcase made him look out of place, made him look like an insurance salesman. He seemed to recognize Allison and approached her, handing her a card. “Mrs. Manning, I wonder if I could speak with you for a few minutes.”

Stone turned to Allison. “If you don’t need me for a moment, I have some phone calls to make.”

“Go right ahead,” she said to him, then turned to the other man. “Of course,” she said, “let’s take a table.”

Stone went up to his new room over the bar, threw his newly acquired barrister’s robe at the wall, and called Bill Eggers.

“Yes, Stone, are we a go for the London man?”

“I’m afraid not, Bill; it seems I’ve wasted his time and yours.”

“Why? What happened?”

“Bill, I hardly know where to begin: I have this perfectly innocent woman for a client who it seems is being railroaded by the judicial system in this godforsaken island country, and unless I can think of something fast they’re going to hang her.”

“Hang her?”

“I’m afraid so.” Stone explained the chain of events thus far.

“That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard,” Eggers said when Stone had finished.

“I wish I were hearing about it instead of living it,” Stone said.

“And your barrister is gaga?”

“At least some of the time; he appeared to be perfectly normal in court, except that he seemed to forget that we were bringing in the London man.”

“Well, at least he knows the score down there; that’s worth something.”

“I hope you’re right, but it’s Tuesday, and I’m going to have to be prepared to try this case next Monday morning.”

“Is there anything else I can do to help?”

“Not right now; believe me, I’ll call in a hurry if there is.”

“I’m here if you need me,” Eggers said, then hung up.

Stone made another call, to Bob Cantor, a retired cop who had been helpful on a previous case.

“Hello?”

“Bob, it’s Stone Barrington.”

“Hi, Stone; aren’t you supposed to be on vacation?”

“I’d rather not talk about that; I’m in big trouble on a case, and I want you to do some things for me. Can you clear the decks for the next week?”

“Sure; I’m not all that busy.”

“Good. The first thing I want you to do is to get on a plane for the Canary Islands.”

“Where the hell is that?”

“It’s a Spanish possession a few hundred miles out in the Atlantic, off North Africa.”

“Back up here, Stone; tell me what’s going on.”

Stone related the events of the past few days.