Driven by a growing and intense desire to put distance between himself and all alien humanity, he turned into a narrow, steeply climbing street which ran twisting between toy-houses and vine-cumbered garden-walls, until at last it lost its right to be called a street and became merely a narrow, trail-like path up the mountain-side. The wanderer climbed interminably. He took no thought of destination and satisfied himself with the physical exertion of the laborious going.

His heart pounded faster as he attained the altitude of the pine woods where he seemed to have left humanity behind him. Once or twice he saw a shy, half-wild child who fled from its task of gathering fagots at his approach, to gaze at him out of startled eyes from a safe distance.

Occasionally he would stop to look down, from some coign of vantage, at cascading threads of water tumbling into the gorge below, or at a chalet-like house perched far beneath in its trim patch of agriculture. Finally he stretched himself indolently on a carpet of pine needles at the brink of a drop to the valley. Then, with a sense of recognition, he saw the tumbled-down gate of the King's driveway below him to the left, and his face became set and miserable as memory began its work of tearing open wounds not yet old.

Suddenly there drifted up a chorus of children's laughter. He sat up suddenly and looked about, but no one was in sight. Again he heard an unmistakable peal of shrill, childish merriment, seemingly close at hand. He lay flat and looked over the ledge, holding on to a root of a gnarled pine that grew far out at the marge.

Under him, not more than twenty yards below, on a similar natural platform, sat a circle of peasant children, their eyes large with wonderment and interest. In their center, also seated on the earth, was the Queen of Galavia. She was dressed in a short walking skirt and a blue jersey, and as the man gripped the pine root to which he held, and gazed over, she lifted an outstretched finger of a gauntleted hand in illustration of some particularly wonderful point of what was palpably a particularly wonderful fairy story. A third burst of delight came from the listening and responsive auditors, who had no idea by whom they were being entertained.

The peasants of Galavia speak Portuguese. As Benton shifted his position so that he could eavesdrop without being discovered, he found that he could catch some of the words.

"Tell us another story—" piped a high treble voice, "—a story about the beautiful Princess who married the King." The demand was seconded by an immediate clamor of eager voices.

The girl rose unsteadily and shook her head. For a moment she stood looking off over the miles of sea with her hands at her breast and her eyes clouded, oblivious of the small companions of her truancy. She stretched out both strong young arms toward the Mediterranean.

Then she heeded the children's clamor again and, turning to them, she laughed.

"No, no!" she teasingly answered, and the man above realized for the first time that Portuguese is a tongue of liquid music. "These are fairy stories without Princesses. These are perfectly good fairy stories, you know." Then with a sudden burst of confidence, "In really-truly life, Princesses are not much good. Don't any of you ever be a Princess if you can help it!" After planting this seed of treasonable ideas she turned away, adding: "No, no, no! I've run away and I must go back. To-morrow we will have a wonderful story—but no more to-day."

Slowly she made her way down to the old gate, stopping twice to look out to the sea, and above her, choking off the shout that clamored at his lips, the man sat motionless and gave no intimation of his presence.

Finally he rose and made his way unsteadily back to the city. He walked slowly down between the wine-shops, noisy with laughter, to the road along the bay. Immersed in reflection and forgetful of his resolution to keep as much as possible out of sight, he went openly and conspicuously along the street that overhangs the water, where at sunset all Puntal promenades. It was only when a detachment of soldiers in the familiar opera-bouffe uniform went clanking by to change the guard at the Palace gates that he remembered he was to have remained inconspicuous. With a sense of chagrin for his indiscretion, he turned into a side street which sloped upward toward his hotel. This street was so little used that between its cobble stones tender sprigs of grass made the way as green as a turf course.



CHAPTER XVII

BENTON CALLS ON THE KING

There were several things to harrow Benton's thoughts aside from the ingenious tortures of memory. Blanco should have arrived at Monte Carlo on the day of their separation. Benton himself had proceeded slowly to Puntal and had now been an isolated guest at the Grand Palace Hotel for two days, yet he had heard nothing from Manuel. Still the man from Cadiz had not been idly cruising. The Isis had duly dropped her anchor in the ultramarine waters where the rock of Monaco juts out like a beckoning finger, and Monte Carlo spreads the marble display of its rococo facades at the feet of the Maritime Alps.

That night, in the most detailed perfection of evening dress, he wandered good-humoredly, yet aloof, through the crowds. He haunted the groups that swarmed about the busy wheels in the casino. He mingled with the diners upon the terraces of the principal hotels. He brushed elbows with the strollers along the promenade and about the Cercle des Etrangers, and all the while his studiously alert eyes wandered with seeming vacancy of expression over the faces of the men and women whom he passed.

Safe in the surety of being himself unknown, he trained his countenance into the ennui of one who has no object beyond killing the hour and contributing his quota to the income of the syndicate.

The evening was wasted, together with a few louis, and the next morning found the Spaniard scrutinizing every face along the Promenade des Anglais at Nice. Then he searched Cannes and Mentone, but by evening he was back again in the sacred City of Black and Red.

As he disembarked from the yacht's launch and came up the white stairs to the landing-stage, his eyes were still indolently wandering, but before he reached the level of the Boulevard de la Condamine, the expression changed with the suddenness of discovery into a glint almost triumphant. It was only with strong effort that he banished the satisfied light from his pupils and forced them to wander absently again, along the glitter and color of the palm-lined promenade.

For Manuel had seen a slender, well-groomed figure leaning on the coping of the sea-wall and gazing out with obvious amusement on the life of the harbor. Although the Spaniard did not allow himself a second glance, he knew that his search was ended. The attention of the man above was dreamily fixed on the bay where a dozen darting motor-boats cut swift courses hither and thither. His attitude was graceful. His bearing might have been almost noble except for a deplorable lack of frankness which spoiled otherwise fine eyes, and a self-indulgent weakness which marred the angle of the chin.

The Bay at Monte Carlo is a haven for luxurious craft. Now the Prince of Monaco's yacht lay at anchor and several others, hardly less handsome, rode snugly offshore, but with the enthusiasm of a connoisseur the tall gentleman disregarded all the rest and let his admiring gaze dwell on the Isis.

The face was studiously altered. Where there had been a full mustache there was now only a thinly clipped line, waxed and uptilting in needle points. It had been dark brown. Now it was black. The hair formerly brushed straight back from the forehead now showed beneath the hat-band. The Van Dyke which had masked the receding tendency of the chin was shaven away. Evidently the gentleman wished to present a changed appearance to the world, but the visionary eyes were unmistakably those of Louis, the Dreamer, and in lapses of thought the fingers of the right hand nervously twisted and untwisted, after the manner of an old personal trick.

As Blanco came up the stairs he brushed clumsily against the stranger and paused to apologize.

"I am inexcusably awkward," he avowed with engaging contriteness.

The Duke protested that it was not worth mention, and added with a smile, "I noticed that you came from that yacht. I think she is one of the most beautiful little vessels I have ever seen."

"Thank you, Monsieur." Blanco was apparently much flattered. "She is American built, and has some appointments which I have not seen elsewhere." Then smilingly, but in hot haste, he rushed away.

During the course of the evening the Andalusian contrived to throw himself repeatedly across the Duke's path. On each occasion he appeared to be in great haste and under the necessity of immediate departure, though he never left without a cordial word of recognition. He played his game so adroitly that at the end of the evening the Duke felt as though he and the stranger from the American-built yacht were old and pleasant acquaintances.

It was as they stood watching the stiffer gambling of the elect in the upper room of the Casino, after the wheels below had ceased to spin, that the tall gentleman turned to Blanco.

"How do you say? Would a cup of coffee or a glass of wine go amiss?"

Without a trace of eagerness, the Andalusian assented and a few minutes later he found himself across a cafe table at the Nouvel Hotel de Paris; listening to Louis, the Dreamer's soft voice, and watching the slender fingers which nervously toyed with a Sevres cup.

"She is extremely beautiful in her lines," Louis was declaring. "I am fond of yachts that are properly built. I am planning one myself, and each new vessel holds for me a fresh interest."

"Ah, indeed!" The Spaniard was delighted. "Then we have fallen upon a common enthusiasm. I am never so happy as when talking to a keen yachtsman." Yet so long as the conversation threatened those nautical technicalities in which he was utterly deficient, he managed to let the other do the talking.

Manuel at last set down his cup and, looking up with a flash, as of sudden inspiration, suggested: "But doubtless you will be stopping in Monte Carlo a day or two? Possibly you will do me the honor of inspecting the boat?"

The other protested that his friend was too good. He regarded himself highly honored. He would be most charmed. But apparently the idea was developing and Blanco was conceiving even more extended notions of hospitality.

"Stay!" he suddenly exclaimed. "Why not breakfast with me, on board, to-morrow at twelve? The launch will be at the landing at eleven forty-five. I could take you cruising for a few knots, and let you test her sailing qualities, returning in abundant time for dinner and the amusements of the evening."

Louis gave the matter a moment's reflection, then declared that the programme was delightful. He would not be engaged until the evening.

Blanco laughed uproariously. "It is most amusing," he declared. "I have had supper with you—you are to breakfast with me, and I have not yet told you my name!" He was searching for a card-case, which seemingly he had misplaced. "I cannot find a card. No matter, my name is Sir Manuel Blanco."

The Duke smiled as he rose from the table and took up hat and cane. "I was equally forgetful," he said. "My name is Monsieur Breuillard."

The following day had advanced well into the afternoon, and Monsieur Breuillard had punctuated with graceful compliment each point of excellence in the equipment of the Isis, when Blanco led the way into the small smoking saloon.

"Sailing qualities may not have been fairly tested," admitted Sir Manuel, "since the sea was serene, the sky brilliant, and the breeze insufficient to ruffle the water."

"The more charming, Monsieur!" exclaimed the guest, whose mood after a pleasing day was mellow and complacent.

Blanco waved Monsieur Breuillard to an easy chair and pointed out cigars. As chance would have it, he stood before the door, which he had just closed.

"By the way—Your Grace—" He broke off abruptly to mark the effect of the title on the other man. Evidently he found it highly pleasing for he smiled as the Dreamer winced and came violently to his feet, pale and rigid, but as yet too astounded for speech.

"I did not tell you, did I," went on the Spaniard, "that I have been Sir Manuel Blanco only a few days, and that the title was conferred on me by your royal kinsman, Karyl of Galavia, for a trifling service in confounding his enemies? Before that I was a matador in Andalusia."

Delgado stood petrified, his features livid and his eyes blazing with rage. An instinct warned him that to surrender to passion would be only to trap himself more deeply. The man blocking the door filled its breadth with his strong shoulders. Louis turned his head and his eyes caught through the open porthole a glimpse of the receding shore-line of the Riviera. Blanco followed the glance and smiled.

"We shall be losing shore in a short time," he calmly announced. "May I have the honor of showing Your Grace to your stateroom?"

* * * * *

On the next evening Benton emerged from his rooms at the Grand Palace Hotel in Puntal, and threading his way through the loungers on the galleries, sought out a remote corner of the garden, where, under a blossom-freighted vine, he could hear the surge of the sea, and, in a tempered softness, the Viennese waltz of the hotel band. Under him the harbor mirrored lights along the shore and those of ships at anchor. At a distance the windows of the Palace could be seen.

"I beg your pardon—"

Benton recognized the coldly modulated voice before he glanced up at the cloaked figure.

"Colonel Von Ritz," he said, "I am honored."

Von Ritz bowed.

"His Majesty requests that you will do him the honor of coming to the Palace with me—now."

Despite the form of request in which the summons was couched, Von Ritz clothed it in a coldness that brought to Benton's mind the implacable politeness of an arrest. At the hint he stiffened.

"If His Majesty requests my presence," he replied with some shortness, "it will be a pleasure to present myself at once. If—" he paused and looked at the stiffly erect figure before him, "if the peremptory tone you assume is a part of your instruction, I must remind you that I am an American citizen, entirely free to accept or decline invitations—even when they come from the Palace."

Von Ritz replied with unruffled gravity.

"If it will add to your sense of security, Mr. Benton, I shall be pleased to drive you to your Legation and to have your government's representative accompany us."

Benton flushed. "I was not speaking from any sense of personal insecurity," he explained. "But I wished you to understand the manner in which I prefer to be approached."

The Colonel waited with perfect courtesy for the American to finish, then he went on in the same distantly polite tone and manner. "I had not quite finished delivering my message when you—when you began to speak. His Majesty instructs me to say that if you will accompany me to the Palace he will regard it as a courtesy and will be grateful. He commands me to add that he does not send this message officially or as coming from the Court. It is simply that the Count Pagratide wishes to see you and that it is obviously impossible for His Majesty—for the Count Pagratide—to call on you here."

Benton was irritated with himself for his display of temper, and more irritated with Von Ritz for his calm superiority of manner. His murmured apology was offered with no very good grace as he turned to follow the other's lead. Opposite the hotel entrance he stopped.

"Colonel," he said, "I have been awaiting news from Manuel Blanco. He may send a message or come himself, and if so it may be vital for him to establish instant communication with me."

"Certainly," agreed Von Ritz. "I would suggest that you introduce my aide, who may be trusted, at the hotel and that he be instructed to bring you any message. By that means, Senor Blanco, or his news, can follow you directly to the Palace—and it does not become necessary to take others into your confidence."

The same young Captain who had summoned Blanco in the Casino was left to act as messenger and Benton, following the officer through a side gate and into a side street, stepped into a closed carriage.

"I had not supposed that the Palace knew of my presence in Puntal," commented the American as he took his seat opposite the Colonel of Cavalry.

"You were seen on the promenade. It was reported from several sources," Von Ritz made answer. "Also," he added as an afterthought, "we knew of your arrival two hours after you reached Puntal. You registered at the hotel under your own name."

"Does the Queen also know of my presence?" asked Benton.

"No," was the brief reply.

For the remainder of the drive conversation died. The two men sat mutely opposite each other as the carriage jolted over the cobble-stoned streets, until the driver turned into the castle gates.

Then Von Ritz again leaned forward.

"Mr. Benton," he explained, "it happens that this evening a ball is being given at the Palace for the members of the Diplomatic Corps. His Majesty, supposing that you would desire a quiet reception, instructed me to take you to the gardens of his private suite where he will shortly join you; unless," added Von Ritz courteously, "you prefer the Throne-room and dancing salles?"

Benton's reply was prompt.

"I believe I am to see the Count Pagratide," he answered. "I am grateful to the Count for arranging that I might be secluded."

Blanco had gone into some detail in describing the chamber where he had met the King, and later the Queen. Benton now recognized the place to which he was conducted, from that description. As before, the room was empty and the portieres of the wide windows were partly drawn. Through the opening he could see the small area perching on a space redeemed from the solid rock. Dark masses against the sky marked the palms of the garden, and through the window drifted the splashing of a fountain mingled with the distant strains of the same Viennese waltz that the hotel band had been playing. That year you might have heard it from the Golden Gate to Suez and back again from Suez to the Golden Gate.



CHAPTER XVIII

IN WHICH THE SPHINX BREAKS SILENCE

Left alone, Benton spent ten minutes in the room, then passed through the window to the balcony and went down into the miniature garden. His face was hot and his pulses heightened. The garden was gratefully cool and quiet.

From the window, through which he had come, a broad shaft of tempered luminance fell across the fountain and laid a zone of soft light athwart the low stone benches surrounding it. Then it caught, and faintly edged with its glow, the granite balustrade at the shoulder of the cliff. Elsewhere the little garden was enveloped in the velvet blackness of the night, against which the points of town and harbor lights, far below, were splinters of emerald and ruby. The moon would not rise until late.

The American strolled over to the shaded margin which was unspoiled by the light. He brushed back the hair from his forehead and let the sea breeze play on his face.

Finally a light sound behind him called his attention inward. The King and Von Ritz stood together in the doorway. Both were in dress uniform. Karyl, even at the side of the soldierly Von Ritz, was striking in the white and silver of Galavia's commanding general. Across his breast glinted the decorations of all the orders to which Royalty entitled him.

The King, with a deep breath not unlike a sigh, came forward to the fountain. There he halted with one booted foot on the margin of the basin and his white-gauntleted hands clasped at his back. He had not yet seen Benton, who now stepped out of the shadow to present himself. As he came into view Karyl raised his eyes and nodded with a smile.

"Ah, Benton," he said, "so you came! Thank you."

The American bowed. He wished to observe every proper amenity of Court etiquette. He was still chagrined by the memory of his rudeness to Von Ritz, yet he was determined that if Karyl had sent for him as the Count Pagratide, he must receive him on equal terms and without ceremony.

"Certainly," he replied. Then with a short laugh he added: "I have never before been received by a crowned head. If my etiquette proves faulty, you must score it against my ignorance—not my intention."

"I sent for you," said Karyl slowly, as the eyes of the two men met in full directness, "and you were good enough to come. I am a crowned head—yes—that is my damned ill-fortune. Let us, for God's sake, in so far as we may, forget that! Benton, back there—" his voice suddenly rose and took on a passionate tremor as he lifted one gauntleted hand in a sweep toward the west—"back there in your country, where you were a grandee of finance and I an impecunious foreigner, there was no ceremony between us. If we can forget this livery"—Karyl savagely struck his breast—"if you will try to forget that you are looking at a toy King, fancifully trimmed from head to heel in braid and medals—then perhaps we can talk!"

"Your Majesty—" demurred Von Ritz in a tone of deep protest.

The King swept his arm back as one who brushes an unimportant intruder into the background.

"And we must talk," went on Karyl vehemently, "as two men, not as one man and a puppet."

The American stood looking on at the violence of the King's outburst with a sense of deep sympathy. Again the Colonel stepped forward with an interposed objection.

"If I may suggest—" he began in an emotionless inflection which fell in startling contrast with the surcharged vehemence of the other. Then he halted in the midst of his sentence as Karyl wheeled passionately to face him.

"My God, Colonel!" cried the King. "There is not a debt of gratitude in life that I do not owe to you—I and my house! I am crushed under my obligations to you. You have been our strength, our one loyal support, and yet there are times when you madden me!" The officer stood waiting, respectful, impersonal, until the flood of words should subside, but for a while Karyl swept agitatedly on.

"You wear a sword, Von Ritz, which any monarch in Europe would hire at your own price. Any government would let you name what titles and honors you wished in payment—"

"Your Majesty!"

"Forgive me, I know your sword is not for sale. I mean no such intimation. I mean only that it has a value. I mean you are a man, and the game to you is the large one of statecraft. It is really you who rule this Kingdom. Ah, yes, you remonstrate, but I tell you it is true, and the damnable shame is that it is not a Kingdom worthy of your genius! You, Von Ritz, are the engine, the motive force—but I—in God's holy name, what am I?"

He raised his hands questioningly, appealingly.

"You," replied the older soldier calmly, "are the King."

"Yes," Karyl caught up the words almost before they had fallen from the lips of the other. "Yes, I am the King. I am the miserable, gilded figurehead out on the prow, which serves no end and no purpose. I am the ornamental symbol of a system which the world is discarding! I am a medieval lay figure upon which to hang these tinsel decorations, these ribbons!"

"Your Majesty is excited."

"No, by God, I am only heartbroken—and I am through!" The King's hands dropped at his sides. The passion died out of his voice and eyes, leaving them those of a man who is very tired. For a moment there was silence. It was broken by the American.

"Pagratide," he asked, "why did you send for me?"

The King stood rigid with the illuminating shaft from the door touching into high-lights the polish of his boots and the burnish of his accouterments. Finally he turned and in a voice now deadly quiet countered with another question.

"Benton, why did you save me?"

The American answered with quiet candor.

"I went into it," he said, "because I feared the danger might threaten Cara. Once in, only a murderer could have turned back."

"So I thought." Karyl nodded his head, then he turned and paced restively up and down the path between the fountain and the balcony. At last he halted fronting the American.

"I wish to God, Benton, you had let that traitor Lapas and his constituents touch their damned button. I wish to God you had let them lift me, amid the stones of do Freres, into eternity! But that wish is uncharitable to Von Ritz and the others who must have gone with me." The King broke off with a short laugh. "After all," he added, "of course, as you say, you couldn't do it."

Benton shook his head. "No," he said, "I couldn't do it."

Again Karyl paced back and forth, and again he stopped, facing the American.

"Benton, it is hard for two men to talk in this fashion. Perhaps no two other men ever did. I find myself a jailer to the woman I love—Oh, yes, I am also imprisoned by Royalty but that does not alter matters." The voice shook. The gauntleted hands were tightly gripped, but the speaker went steadily on. "And you love her!"

For an instant Benton looked at the other, hesitant. Then realizing the unquestionable sincerity with which the King spoke, he answered with equal frankness.

"Pagratide—over there—I thought I could enter Paradise. I did look into Paradise. Then I had to set my face back again to the desert—and in the desert one has only memory and hunger and thirst."

"Yours is hunger and thirst—yes!" exclaimed the King of Galavia. "But mine is the hunger and thirst of Tantalus."

There was a low pained exclamation from the balcony and both men wheeled in recognition of the voice and the shadow that divided the band of light in the doorway.

The Queen stood on the low sill and though her head and figure were only sketched in shade against the tempered luminance at her back her exclamation told them that she had heard. She stood in the unbroken sweep of her Court gown. Her slim hands gripped the ermine which fell from her shoulders to the floor and slowly crushed it between clenched fingers. About her head the light touched her hair into a soft nimbus.

Karyl stepped impetuously forward and held out his hand to lead her into the garden. Benton, who had involuntarily started toward the balcony at the first sight of her, caught his lip in his teeth and halted where he stood.

The girl remained for a moment, astonished at the sight of the two men, incredulous of what she had heard.

She had slipped away for a moment of respite from the fatiguing requirements of the ball-room. She had come here because she had felt sure that here she could be alone. She had come, driven by the prompting of her heart, to look out to the Mediterranean and wonder where, between its gates at Gibraltar and Suez, Benton might at that moment be. And from the balcony she had seen him in the garden and had heard a part of this talk before the spell of her astounded muteness broke into exclamation.

"You heard what we were saying." Karyl spoke gently, deferentially. "And it seemed to you incredible that we should be confidential on such a subject. It would be so, except that we are both seeking the same end—your service—" he paused, then added miserably—"and your happiness."

She listened in wonderment as she held out her hand to Benton and watched trance-like his lowered head as he bent his lips to her fingers.

"Cara!" Karyl had stepped back and was leaning over, his elbows resting on the stone back of one of the low benches. His fingers tightly grasped the carved ornaments at its top. His words were carefully chosen and measuredly spoken. He knew that if he permitted one expression to escape him unguardedly, with it would slip away the command by which he was curbing mutinous emotions.

"Cara, I happened to be born a Prince, who should one day develop into a King. It chanced that Nature had a sense of humor—so Nature paid me a droll compliment. She gave me a futile ambition to be a man—me, whom she had decided was to be only a King!"

The group stood silent and attentive in a strained tableau, except for Von Ritz, who paced back and forth just beyond the fountain, as though respectfully repudiating the whole unseemly episode.

"Then I fell in love with you," went on the King of Galavia. "You married me—because State reasons demanded it. I could not win your love—he did!" He turned toward Benton, and his voice, though it held its slow control, was bitter.

"Benton, do you fancy this puny game amuses me? Do I not know that you could buy a principality like this for a souvenir of Europe if it happened to please you? The one time I have been allowed to feel a man was in your country, where we met as equal rivals.... No, not equal even then, because you were the winner, I the loser."

"Karyl," the Queen spoke in a low voice, "I can give you loyalty, admiration, respect and my life to use as you see fit to use it. I give as freely as I can. My love I do not refuse—it is just ... just that it is not mine to give." She spoke with unutterable weariness. "I seem to bring only sorrow to those who love me."

"You can give me all but love," Karyl repeated very softly, leaning forward toward her, "and love is all there is! Without it I take all else you give me as a thief takes, without right. If being a King means being your jailer, then I am done with being a King!"

"Your Majesty," cut in Von Ritz sharply, "it is time to terminate this talk. It has no end. It is aimless argument which comes only back to the starting point."

The King wheeled and met the eyes of his adviser. The studied self-control he had maintained since Cara's arrival slipped from him and his voice broke out explosively.

"It has an end!" he cried. "I will show you the end. If I cannot build empire I can do something else, I can throw this damnable little Kingdom down into the chaos it deserves!... I can abdicate to my cousin, Louis Delgado, who wants the throne I don't want!... I can stamp on this tinseled trumpery.... I can break jail!" He turned with an impassioned out-sweeping of his hands. Coming swiftly from behind the bench, he halted tensely before Benton and leaned defiantly forward. "Then I can free her—and by God I shall fight you for her on equal terms, inch by inch, not holding her in duress, but fighting for her free consent. She has been trapped by Fate into marrying me and at heart she rebels. I shall set her free and then by God I will win her back!"

Von Ritz had stood by as the King rushed on in climax after climax of heated words. Now he took one swift stride forward. From his quiet face had fallen every trace of impassiveness. When he spoke his voice trembled with the irresistible eloquence of power and fire.

"My God, boy!" He seized Karyl by his shoulders and wheeled him so that they stood face to face. There was in his manner nothing of deference, nothing of the subordinate. Now he stood transformed, the man of action; the dominant, compelling force before whom littler men must wither. This was no longer Von Ritz the emotionless. It was Von Ritz the King-maker, burning with vitalizing passion.

"My God, boy, are you mad? Do you think other men have never loved and sacrificed themselves for duty—kept unuttered, locked in their hearts, things they were hungry to say?... Do you think that your hard task of Kingship is yours to play with—to desert?... Why, boy, I've taught you your manual of arms, I've drilled you, trained you, watched you grow from childhood. My heart has beaten with joy because you were free of every degenerate trace that has marked and scarred Europe's cancerous Royalty! I've seen you come clean-hearted, straight-minded into man-hood; prepared you to show the world what a Kingdom can be with a clean King—a strong King! I've fitted you to bear a burden which only a man could bear—to remind the world that 'King' means the Man Who Can—and I thought you could do it!" He paused only to draw a long breath, then hastened on again. "Yes, your task is thankless. Your Principality is small, but it is a keystone in Europe's arch. It is such Princelings as you who must send clean blood down to the thrones of to-morrow.... Is that not enough?... Have I built a King, day by day, year by year, idea by idea, only to see him wither and crumple under the first blast? Go on with your task, in God's name! Probably they will murder you ... assassination may at the end be your reward, but only the coward fears the outcome! For God's sake, Karyl, don't desert me under fire!"

He paused with a gesture eloquent of appeal. When next he spoke his voice was slow, deliberate.

"And the other picture! The cafe tables of Paris are crowded with Royalty that has been; with the miserable children of conquered and abdicated Kings!"

The King dropped exhaustedly to the bench, his fore-arms on his knees, his gloved fingers hanging limp. After a moment he rose again and went to Cara.

"I want to fight for you," he said simply. "I want to free you first—then fight for you."

"Karyl," she answered gently, "if you do this, you will enslave my soul, and my imprisonment will be only harder. You will make me a wrecker of governments—a traitor to my duty."

The King turned and looked out to sea.

"I must think," he said in a tired voice. "Perhaps it is only a matter of time. Delgado is free. Perhaps I shall not have to present him with my throne. Conceivably he may come and take it."

Von Ritz approached again and took Karyl's hand. To him a King was, at last analysis, only the best product of the King-maker's craft. He was a King-maker—before him stood a tired boy whom he loved.

"You will fight," he said, "and you will fight with hell's fury. The first step will be to recapture this Pretender. With him in hand—"

"Which is in itself impossible," retorted Karyl.

At the window appeared the young Captain who had been left at the hotel. His hand was at his forehead in salute. Von Ritz went to meet him and in a moment returned for Benton. Together the two men went out. Five minutes later they had come again into the garden. With them came Manuel Blanco.

The bull fighter paused to bow low to the Queen, then to the King. At last he spoke with some diffidence.

"I have taken the very great liberty," he said, "of making the Duke Louis Delgado an enforced guest on the yacht—where he awaits Your Majesty's pleasure."



CHAPTER XIX

THE JACKAL TAKES THE TRAIL

"When the Duke avowed himself to be kidnaped, he committed an error so grave that it can hardly be—overestimated." The speaker used the last word as an afterthought. His first inclination was to say, forgiven.

Monsieur Jusseret sat upright in the brougham, scorning the supporting cushions at his back. His small, shrewd eyes frowned his deep disapproval over the roofs of Algiers outspread below him. He scowled on the gaudy and tatterdemalion color of the native city. He scowled on the smart brilliancy of the French quarter basking along the Place du Government and the Boulevard de la Republique.

The Countess Astaride leaned back and smiled from the depths of the cushions.

"It is usually a mistake to be made a prisoner," she smiled.

"But such a foolish mistake," quarreled Jusseret. "To permit oneself to be lured into so palpable a trap. It is most absurd."

"Now that it is done," inquired the woman, "is it not almost as absurd to waste time deploring the spilled milk? We must find a way to set him free."

"I have done all that could be done. I have stationed men whom I can trust throughout Puntal and Galavia. They are men Karyl likewise thinks he can trust. The distinction is that I know—where he merely thinks."

"And these men—what have they done?" The Countess laid one gloved hand eagerly on the Frenchman's coat-sleeve.

"These men have gradually and quietly reorganized the army, the bureaucracy, the very palace Guard. We have undermined the government's power, until when the word is passed to strike the blow, a honey-combed system will crumble under its own weight. When Karyl calls on his troops, not one man will respond. Well—" Jusseret smiled dryly—"perhaps I overstate the case. Possibly one man will. I think we will hardly convert Von Ritz."

"Ah, that is good news, Monsieur." The Countess breathed the words with a tremor of enthusiasm.

"It is, however, all useless, Madame—since His Grace is unavailable. In captivity he is absolutely valueless."

"In captivity he has a stronger claim upon our loyalty than in power!"

The dark-room diplomat regarded her with a disappointed smile.

"For a clever woman, Comptesse, who has heretofore played the game so brilliantly, you have grown singularly unobservant. I am not a crusader, liberating captive Christian knights. I am France's servant, playing a somewhat guileful game which is as ancient as Ulysses, and subject to certain definite rules."

"Yes, but—"

"But, my dear lady, this revolution I have planted—nourished and cultivated to ripeness—I cannot harvest it. Outside Europe must not appear interested in this matter. If the Galavian people led by a member of the Galavian Royal House revolts! Bien! More than bien—excellent!" Jusseret spread his palms. "But unless there is a leader, there can be no revolution. No, no, Louis should have kept out of custody."

The Countess leaned forward with sudden eagerness.

"And if I free him? If I devise a way?"

The Frenchman turned quickly from contemplation of the landscape to her face.

"Ah!" he exclaimed. "Once more you are yourself; the cleverest woman in Europe, as, always, you are the most charming!"

"Do you know where Monsieur Martin may be found?"

Jusseret looked at her in surprise.

"I supposed he was here, consulting with you. I sent him to you with a letter—recommending him as a useful instrument."

"He was in Algiers, but I sent him away." The Countess laughed. "He wanted money, always money, until I wearied of furnishing his purse."

"Even if he were available he could hardly go to Puntal, Madame," demurred Jusseret. "Von Ritz knows him."

"True." The Countess sat for a time in deep thought.

"There is one man in Puntal," said Jusseret with sudden thought, "who might possibly be of assistance to you. He is not legally a citizen of Galavia. He even has a certain official connection with another government. He is a man I cannot myself approach." Jusseret had been talking in a low tone, too low to endanger being overheard by the cocher, but now with excess of caution he leaned forward and whispered a name. The name was Jose Reebeler.

* * * * *

It was June. Three months had passed since the Grand Duke had steamed into Puntal Harbor as Blanco's prisoner of war. The Duke had since that day been a guest of the King. His goings and comings were, however, guarded with strict solicitude. One day he went after his custom for a stroll in the Palace garden. He was accompanied by two officers of the Palace Guard especially selected by Von Ritz for known fidelity. At the garden gates stood picked sentinels. That evening a fisherman's boat stole out of the harbor. Neither Louis Delgado nor his guard returned. The sentinels failed to respond at roll-call.

As the King and the Colonel listened to the report of the escape, Karyl's face paled a little and the features of Von Ritz hardened. Orders were given for an instant dispatch in cipher, demanding from a secret agent in Algiers all information obtainable as to the movements of the Countess Astaride. The reply brought the statement that the Countess had, several days before, sailed for Alexandria and Cairo.

Von Ritz became preternaturally active, masking every movement under his accustomed seeming of imperturbable calm. At last he brought his report to the King. "It signifies one thing which I had not suspected. Among the men whom I thought I could most implicitly trust, there is treason. How deep that cancer goes is a matter as to which we can only make guesses."

Karyl took a few turns across the floor.

"And by that you mean that we are over a volcano which may break into eruption at any moment?"

Von Ritz nodded.

"And the Queen—" began Karyl.

"I have been thinking of Her Majesty," said the Colonel. "She should leave Puntal, but she will not go, if it occurs to her that she is being sent away to escape danger. Her Majesty's courage might almost be called stubborn."

The King made no immediate response. He was standing at a window, looking out at the serenity of sea and sky. His forehead was drawn in thought. He knew that Von Ritz was right. Had Cara hated him, instead of merely finding herself unable to love him, he knew that the first threat of danger would arouse the ally in her, and that the suggestion of flight would throw her into the attitude of determined resistance. She was like the captain who goes down with his ship, not because he loves the ship, but because his place is on the bridge.

Von Ritz went on quietly.

"God grant that Your Majesty may be in no actual danger. But we must face the situation open-eyed. Your place is here. If by mischance you should fall, there is no reason why—" he hesitated, then added—"why the dynasty should end with you. In Galavia there is no Salic law. Her Majesty could reign. Undoubtedly the Queen should be in some safer place."

The King dropped into a chair and sat for some minutes with his eyes thoughtfully on the floor. Abstractedly he puffed a cigarette. At last he raised his face. It was pale, but stamped with determination.

"There is only one thing to do, Von Ritz. There is one available refuge."

The soldier read the reluctant eyes of the other, and spared him the necessary explanation with a question. "Mr. Benton's yacht?" he inquired.

Karyl nodded. "The yacht."

"I, too, had thought of that, but how can you arrange it, Your Majesty?"

"We must persuade her that she requires a change of scene and that this is the one way she can have it without conspicuousness. It can be given out that she has gone to Maritzburg, and I shall tell her"—Karyl smiled with a cynical humor—"that I am over-weary with this task of Kingship, and that I shall join her within a few days for a brief truancy from the cares of state."

"It may be the safest thing," reflected the officer. "It at least frees our minds of a burdensome anxiety."

"I shall persuade her," declared Karyl. "She can take several ladies-in-waiting and you can accompany her to the yacht and explain to Benton. Direct him to cruise within wireless call and to avoid cities where the Queen might be in danger of recognition. She must remain until we gain some hint as to when and where the crater is apt to break into eruption."

Jusseret was busy. His agencies were at work over the peninsula. It was the sort of conspiracy in which the Frenchman took the keenest delight—purely a military revolution.

The peasant on the mountains, the agriculturist in his buttressed and terraced farm, the grape-grower in his vineyard and the artisan and laborer in Puntal did not know that there was dissatisfaction with the government.

But in the small army and the smaller bureaucracy there was plotting and undermining. Subtle and devious temptations were employed. Captains saw before them the shoulder straps of the major, lieutenants the insignia of the captain, privates the chevrons of the sergeant.

Meanwhile, from a town in southerly Europe, near the Galavian frontier, Monsieur Jusseret in person was alertly watching.

Martin, the "English Jackal," much depleted in fortune, drifting before vagabond winds and hailing last from Malta, learned of the Frenchman's seemingly empty programme. Since his dismissal by the Countess, there had been no employer for his unscrupulous talents. Now he needed funds. Where Jusseret operated there might be work in his particular line. He knew that when this man seemed most idle he was often most busy. Martin had come to a near-by point by chance. He went on to Jusseret's town, and then to his hotel, with the same surety and motive that directs the vulture to its carrion. The Jackal was ushered into the Frenchman's room in the tattered and somewhat disheveled condition to which his recent weeks of vagabondage had subjected him.

Jusseret looked his former ally over with scarcely concealed contempt. Martin sustained the stare and returned it with one coolly audacious.

"I daresay," he began, with something of insolence in his drawl, "it's hardly necessary to explain why I'm here. I'm looking for something to do, and in my condition"—he glanced deprecatingly down at his faded tweeds—"one can't be over nice in selecting one's business associates."

Jusseret was secretly pleased. He divined that before the end came there might be use for Martin, though no immediate need of him suggested itself. There were so few men obtainable who would, without question, undertake and execute intrigue or homicide equally well. It might be expedient to hold this one in reserve.

"We will not quarrel, Monsieur Martin," he said almost with a purr. "It is not even necessary to return the compliment. It is so well understood, why one employs your capable services."

The Englishman flushed. To defend his reputation would be a waste of time.

"Madame la Comptesse d'Astaride," explained Jusseret, "has gone to Cairo. She may require your wits as well as her own before the game is played out. Join her there and take your instructions from her." As he spoke the map-reviser began counting bills from his well-supplied purse. Martin looked at them avidly, then objected with a surly frown.

"She sent me away once, and I don't particularly care for the Cairo idea."

"This time she will not send you away." Jusseret glanced up with a bland smile. "And it seems I remember a season, not so many years gone, when you were a rather prominent personage upon the terrace of Shephard's. You were quite an engaging figure of a man, Monsieur Martin, in flannels and Panama hat, quite a smart figure!"

The Englishman scowled. "You delight, Monsieur, in touching the raw spots—However, I daresay matters will go rippingly." He took the bills and counted them into his own purse. "A chap can't afford to be too sentimental or thin-skinned." He was thinking of a couple of clubs in Cairo from which he had been asked to resign. Then he laughed callously as he added aloud: "You see there's a regiment stationed there, just now, which I'd rather not meet. I used to belong to its mess—once upon a time."

Jusseret looked up at the renegade, then with a cynical laugh he rose.

"These little matters are inconvenient," he admitted, "but embarrassments beset one everywhere. If one turns aside to avoid his old regiment, who knows but he may meet his tailor insistent upon payment—or the lady who was once his wife?"

He lighted a cigarette, then with the refined cruelty that enjoyed torturing a victim who could not afford to resent his brutality, he added:

"But these army regulations are extremely annoying, I daresay—these rules which proclaim it infamous to recognize one who—who has, under certain circumstances, ceased to be a brother-officer."

The Englishman was leaning across the table, his cheek-bones red and his eyes dangerous.

"By God, Jusseret, don't go too far!" he cautioned.

The Frenchman raised his hands in an apologetic gesture, but his eyes still held a trace of the malevolent smile.

"A thousand pardons, my dear Martin," he begged. "I meant only to be sympathetic."



CHAPTER XX

THE DEATH Of ROMANCE IS DEPLORED

"And yet," declared young Harcourt, "if there still survives, anywhere in the world, a vestige of Romance, this should be her refuge; her last stand against the encroachments of the commonplace."

He spoke animatedly, with the double eagerness of a boy and an artist, sweeping one hand outward in an argumentative gesture. It was a gesture which seemed to submit in evidence all the palpitating colors of Capri sunning herself among her rocks: all the sparkle and glitter of the Bay of Naples spreading away to the nebulous line where Ischia bulked herself in mist against the horizon: all the majesty of the cone where the fires of Vesuvius lay sleeping.

Across the table Sir Manuel Blanco shrugged his broad shoulders.

Benton lighted a cigarette, and a smile, scarcely indicative of frank amusement, flickered in his eyes.

"Do you hold that Romance is on the run?" he queried.

"Where do you find it nowadays?" demanded the boy in flannels. "There!" With the violence of disgust he slammed a Baedeker of Southern Italy down upon the table. "That is the way we see the world in these days! We go back with souvenir postcards instead of experiences, and when we get home we have just been to a lot of tramped-over places. I'll wager that a handful of this copper junk they call money over here, would buy in a bull market all the real adventure any of us will ever know."

The three had been lunching out-doors in a Capri hotel with flagstones for a floor and overhanging vine-trellises for a roof. Chance had thrown this young stranger across their path, and luncheon had cemented an acquaintanceship.

"Who can say?" suggested Benton. "Why hunt Trouble under the alias of Romance? Vesuvius, across there, is as vague and noiseless to-day as a wraith, but to-morrow his demon may run amuck over all this end of Italy! And then—" His laugh finished the speculation.

"And yet," went on the boy, after a moment's pause, "I was just thinking of a chap I met in Algiers a while back and later on the boat to Malta. I ran across him in one of those vile little twisting alleys in the Kasbah quarter where dirty natives sit cross-legged on shabby rugs and eye the 'Infidel dogs' just as spiders watch flies from loathsome webs—ugh, you know the sort of place!" He paused with a slight shudder of reminiscent disgust. "I fancy he has had adventures. We had a glass of wine later down at one of the sidewalk cafes in the Boulevard de la Republique. He showed me lots of things that a regular guide would have omitted. The fellow was on his uppers, yet he had been something else, and still knew genteel people. Up on the driveway by the villas, where fashion parades, he excused himself to speak with a magnificently dressed woman in a brougham, and she chatted with him in a manner almost confidential. He told me later she might some day occupy a throne; I think her name was the Countess Astaride."

Benton looked up quickly and his eyes met those of the Spaniard with a swiftly flashed message which excluded Harcourt.

"This fellow and I were on the same boat coming over to Valetta," continued the young tourist. "One night in the smoke-room, the steward was filling the glasses pretty frequently. At last he became confidential."

"Yes?" prompted Benton.

"Well, he told me he had once held a commission in the British Army and had seen service in diplomacy as military attache. Then he got cashiered. He didn't go into particulars, and of course I didn't cross-question. He recited some weird experiences. He had been a cattle man in Australia and a horse-trader in Syria and had served the Sultan in Turkey. There were lots of things that would have made a good book." The boy's voice took on a note of young ardor. "But the great story was the one he told last. He had stood to win a title of nobility in this two-by-four Kingdom of Galavia, but it had slipped away from him just on the verge of attainment."

Harcourt slowly drained his thin Capri wine and set down the goblet.

"I must watch the time," he remembered at last, drawing out his watch. "I do the Blue Grotto this afternoon.... Well, to continue: This chap gave the name Browne (he insisted that it be Browne with an e), though while he was drunk he called himself Martin.

"He told a long and complicated story of plans in which a King was to lose his life and throne. He said that the secret cabinets of several of the major European governments were interested, and that just as carefully prepared plans were about to be consummated something happened—something mysterious which none of the cleverest agents of the governments had been able to solve. In some unfathomable way someone had discovered everything and stepped between and disarranged. No upheaval followed and of course Browne never won his title. They have never yet learned who saved that throne. Someone is working magic and getting away with it under the eyes of Europe's cleverest detectives."

The boy stopped and looked about to see if his recital had aroused the proper wonderment. Both men gave expression of deep interest. Flattered by the impression he had made, Harcourt went on. "Now you fellows are old travelers—men of the world—I am a kid compared to you. Yet has either of you stumbled on such a story as that? So you see wonderful things do sometimes happen under the surface of affairs with never a ripple at the top of the water. Browne—or Martin—said that the Duke would reign yet—oh, yes, he said the Powers would see to that!"

"Senor, what became of your friend?" inquired Blanco.

"Oh!" the boy hesitated for a moment, then broke into a laugh. "I'm afraid that's an anti-climax. They found that he was simply a nervy stowaway. He had not booked his passage and so—"

"They put him off?"

"Yes, at Malta. Meantime he was stripped to the waist and armed with a shovel in the stoke-hold."

Benton laughed.

"There was another phase to it, though—" began the boy afresh.

At that moment the whistle of the small excursion steamer below broke out in a shrill scream. Young Harcourt hurriedly pushed back his chair and grabbed for his Panama hat. "Caesar!" he cried, "there's the whistle. I shall miss my boat for the Grotto." And he hastened off with a shout of summons to a crazy victoria that was clattering by empty.

During a long silence Blanco studied the cone of Vesuvius.

"Blanco!" Benton leaned across the table with an anxious frown and stretched out a hand which over-turned the wine glasses. "There was one thing he said that stuck in my memory. He said the Powers would see that in the end Louis had his throne."

The Spaniard shook his head dubiously.

"The Powers have lost their instrument! You forget, Senor, that this is underground diplomacy. It must appear to work itself out and the new King must be logical. With Louis a prisoner their meddling hands are bound."

Benton rose and pushed back his chair. His companion joined him and together they passed out through the stone-flagged court and into the road. For fifteen minutes they walked morosely and in silence through the steep streets where the shops are tourist-traps, alluringly baited with corals and trinkets. Finally they came out on the beach where many fishing boats were dragged up on the sand, and nets stretched, drying in the sun.

Then Benton spoke.

"In God's name, Manuel, what do I care who occupies the throne of Galavia? No other man could so block my path as Karyl." Then as one in the confessional he declared shamefacedly: "I have never said it to any man because it is too much like murder, but—sometimes I wish I had reached Cadiz one day later than I did." He drew his handkerchief and wiped the moisture from his forehead.

The Spaniard skillfully kindled a cigarette in the spurt of a match, which the gusty sea-breeze made short-lived.

"And now," he calmly suggested, "it is still possible to let Europe play out her game alone. After all, Senor, we are as the young touristo indicated—only amateurs."

"And yet, Manuel," the American smiled half-quizzically, "yet we seem foreordained to play bodyguard to Karyl. Fate throws him on our hands."

"We might decline in future to accept the charge."

Benton halted so close to the water's edge that a bit of sea-weed was washed up close to his feet. "Any threat to the throne of Galavia now is also a threat to Her. We must learn what these Powers purpose doing." He threw back his shoulders and his step quickened with the resolution of fresh action.

"Besides," he supplemented, "Delgado is a dreaming degenerate! We must get back into the game."

The Spaniard laughed. "As you say, Senor. After all, this mere cruising grows monotonous. Playing the game is better."

When, at twilight that evening, the launch came chugging back to the yacht with the mail from Naples, Benton caught sight of a blue envelope in which he recognized the form of the Italian telegraph. He tore it open and his brows contracted in incredulous wonderment as he read the message.

"Miss Carstow and two other ladies arrive Parker's Hotel Naples Tuesday afternoon. Rely on your meeting her with yacht. She will explain. Be ready to sail immediately on arrival. Address reply Pagratide, care Grand Palace Hotel."

Benton smiled almost happily as he scrawled, in reply, "Isis and self at Miss Carstow's service. Waiting under steam. Benton."



CHAPTER XXI

NAPLES ASSUMES NEW BEAUTY

The following day was Tuesday. It found Benton nearer cheerfulness than he had been since the Isis had in February pointed her bow eastward for the run across the Atlantic, under sealed orders.

To Blanco the yachtsman announced that he would lunch at Parker's, and evasively asked the Spaniard if he would mind being left alone for the day.

As the coachman, hailed at random from the mob of brigands by the Custom-house entrance, cracked his whip over the bony stallion in the fiacre shafts, Benton began to notice that Naples was altogether charming. He found no refusals for the tatterdemalion vagabonds who pattered alongside to thrust their violets over the carriage door.

At last, as he paced one of the main parlors of the hotel, his eyes riveted on the street entrance, he heard a laugh behind him; a laugh tempered with a vibrant mellowness which was of a sort with no other laugh, and which set him vibrating in turn, as promptly as a tuning-fork answers to its note.

The sound brought him round in such electric haste as almost resulted in collision with the girl behind him.

He was prepared, of course, to find in her incognita no suggestion of Royalty, yet now when he met her standing alone, and could take the hand she held out to him with her heart-breaking, heart-recompensating smile, he felt a distinct sense of astonishment.

"I'm having a holiday," she declared. "It's to be the Queen's day off and you are being allowed to play host with the Isis. Do you approve?"

With abandonment to the delight of mere propinquity, he laid away sorrow against the returning time of her absence, as one lays away an umbrella until the next shower.

"Approve?" he mocked. "It's like asking the drowning man if he approves of being picked up."

For a moment her eyes clouded and a droop threatened her lips.

"But," she said in a softer tone, "what if you've got to be thrown back into the sea again?" Then she added, "And, you see, I have. Probably I'm very foolish to come. The prison will only be blacker, but I couldn't stand it. I wanted—" She looked at him with the frankness which has nothing to conceal—"I wanted to forget it all for a little time."

With a frigid salutation, Colonel Von Ritz arrived. As he addressed the American, despite his flawless courtesy, his voice still carried the undercurrent of antagonism which no word of his had ever failed to convey to Benton, since their first meeting in America.

"If Miss Carstow"—he uttered the assumed name with distaste—"will excuse you," he suggested, "I should like a word."

Von Ritz led the way out of doors and between the tables and trellises of the garden until he came upon a spot which seemed to promise the greatest possible degree of privacy. There he stopped and stood looking straight ahead of him.

"All that I now tell you, Mr. Benton"—his voice was even and polite to a nicety, yet distinctly icy—"is of course a message from the King."

"Meaning," Benton smiled with polite indifference, "that your personal communications with me would be few?"

"Meaning," corrected Von Ritz gravely, "that in His Majesty's affairs, I speak only on His Majesty's authority."

"Colonel, I am at your service."

"In the first place," began the Galavian at last, "His Majesty wished me to explain why he has presumed on your further assistance. You are the only man outside Galavia who understands—and whom the King may implicitly trust, trust even with the safety of Her Majesty, the Queen."

"You will convey to the King my appreciation of his confidence." Somehow, between the American and this emissary of Karyl, there could never be any attitude other than that of the utmost formality.

Von Ritz sketched the situation.

"It is important that the world should not know of Her Majesty's departure. It would be an admission to the conspirators that the King feels his weakness, and would invite attack. For this reason she could not leave in the ordinary way. Fortunately, it is not difficult for Her Majesty to escape recognition. She is perhaps the one Queen in Europe whose published portraits would not make it impossible for her to go unknown through the cities of the Continent. Her prejudice against photographs has given her that immunity. She might walk through Paris unrecognized."

Benton looked narrowly at Von Ritz. "How much does she know of the truth?"

"Absolutely nothing. She has been persuaded to regard the truancy as a break in the routine of Court life, which—" Von Ritz hesitated, then went on doggedly—"which she finds distasteful. She does not even know that the Duke is free. That is as closely guarded a secret as the fact that he was being held under duress."

The soldier paused, then went on. "The King has told Her Majesty that he hopes to join her on your yacht within a few days. You will please encourage that fiction. In point of fact," with a gesture of despair, "if His Majesty were to leave now he would never return, and if he remains now he may never again leave. I must myself hasten back."

The two men went at some length over the details of the situation. It was agreed that the simple name of a town received by wireless should be a signal upon which the Isis would proceed with all possible haste to the place designated. If the necessity should arise for Karyl's leaving Galavia, he might in this way take refuge on the yacht. This, explained Von Ritz, was only the final precaution of preparing for every exigency. His Majesty was determined not to leave his city alive, until he could leave it in the full security of his established government.

The King also made another request. If Blanco could be spared and would consent to come to Puntal, his proven ability, together with his understanding of the language and the fact that he was not generally known in Puntal, would give him untold value. All the government's secret agents were either under suspicion of treason or too well known to the conspirators to be of great avail. If Blanco agreed to come, he might return with Von Ritz, or follow him at once and await instructions at his hotel, using care to avoid the semblance of open communication with the Palace.

On his return to the parlors, Cara presented Benton to her ladies-in-waiting, the Countess Fernandez and the Countess Jaurez, who were to travel as Miss Carstow's aunts.

* * * * *

When there is a three-quarter moon and an atmosphere as subtle as perfume; when the walls of the city lose their ragged lines and melt into soft shadow shapes, relieved here and there by lights which the waters mirror, night and the Bay of Naples are not bad. Then the small boats which bob alongside are filled with picturesque beggars raising huge bunches of violets on bamboo poles to the deck rails, and the mingling of singing voices with guitars sets it all to music.

On the forward deck Benton stood leaning on the rail and looking toward the city. At his side was Cara Carstow. She was silent, but she shook her head, and the man's solicitous scrutiny caught the deepening thought-furrow between her eyes, and the twitching of her fingers.

He bent forward and spoke softly. "Cara, what is it?" She looked up and smiled. "I was remembering that I stood just here, once before," she said.

"Do you think," he asked quietly, "that there has been a moment since then that I have not remembered it? That night you belonged to me and I to you."

"I guess," she said rather wearily, "we don't any of us belong to ourselves or to those we love most. We just belong to Fate."

"Cara!" He gripped the rail tightly and his words fell evenly. "Over there in America, you admitted to me that you loved me. That was when you were not yet Queen of Galavia." He brought himself up with a sudden halt. She looked up as frankly as a child.

"I didn't admit it," she said. "We only admit things against our will, don't we? I told you gladly."

"And now—!" He held his breath as he looked into her eyes.

"Now I am the Queen of a hideous little Kingdom," she shuddered. "It wouldn't do for me to say it now, would it?"

"Oh!" The man leaned again heavily on the rail. The monosyllable was eloquent. Impulsively she bent toward him, then caught herself. For a moment she looked out at the water undulating under the moon like mother-of-pearl on a waving fan. "But it was all right to say I loved you then," she went on reflectively, after a pause. "I had a perfect right then to tell you that I loved you better than all the small total of the world beside, and—" her voice faltered for a moment—"and," with a musical laugh, she illogically added, "I have nothing to take back of what I then said, though of course I can't ever say it again."



CHAPTER XXII

THE SENTRY BOX ANSWERS THE KING'S QUERY

Several days later, Blanco arrived in Puntal shortly after the lazy noon hour.

Out of disconnected fragments of fact and memory he had evolved a theory. It was a theory as yet immature and half-baked, but one upon which he resolved to act, trusting to the lucky outcome of subsequent events for the filling in of many gaps, and the making good of many deficiencies.

Among the shreds of fragmentary information which Manuel had previously stored away in his memory was the fact that one Jose Reebeler was a capitalist. This was not exclusive information. Every guide and casual acquaintance hastened to sing for the newcomer the saga of Reebeler's importance. One was informed that this magnate owned the three tourist hotels and their acres of vine-covered gardens; that he controlled the half-humorous pretense of a street-railway company and that even the huge, dominating rock upon which perched the pavilions and casino of the Strangers' Club was his property. Still more significant, to Blanco's reasoning, was the fact that Reebeler, though Puntal-born, was of British parentage and that over his house, in the Ruo do Consilhiero, floated both British and American flags, while the double coat-of-arms above his balcony proclaimed him the consular agent of both governments. Here, reasoned Blanco, was a man shielded behind the devices of two nations, neither of which was engaged in petty Mediterranean intrigue. He would be the last man in Puntal to challenge a suspicious glance from the Palace, yet as a man of moneyed enterprise his wish for concessions might well give a political coloring to his thoughts. Somewhere he had heard that the Strangers' Club aspired to the establishment of a gambling Mecca which should rival Monte Carlo in magnitude and that the present impediment was the frown of the government upon such a wholesale gambling enterprise. It was quite unlikely that the Delgado government would discourage a syndicate which could turn a munificent revenue into its taxing coffers.

Through a shaded courtyard where a small fountain tinkled, Blanco strolled to the Consular office and rapped on the door. He was conducted by a native servant to an inner room. Here, while a great blue-bottle fly droned and thumped, Reebeler, a heavy Briton with mild eyes, sprawled his length in a wicker chair and poured brandy and soda. First Blanco represented himself as an adoptive American, touring the world and interested in natural resources. When his host had exhausted the subject of the wine-grower's battle against the ravages of "oidium Tuckeri" and "phyloxera," Blanco picked up a stick of sealing-wax from the table and commenced toying with it in a manner of aimlessness. He struck match after match and melted pellet after pellet of wax, then absently he took from his pocket a gold seal-ring and made, with its shield, several impressions on the wax. Reebeler's eyes were half-closed as he gazed vacantly at the pigeons cooing and strutting in his courtyard.

"See, I have at last got a good impression." The Spaniard idly tossed over the scrap of paper upon which he had stamped a half-dozen of Louis Delgado's crests from the die of the Comptessa Astaride's ring.

The Consul took the fragment of paper with the manner of one forced by politeness to assume an interest in trivialities which bore him.

"See how clearly the device of His Grace stands out in the last impression," casually suggested Blanco, then with eyes narrowly bent on the other he saw the astonished start as his vis-a-vis realized what device had been imprinted on the paper. It was the sign for which he had played. When Reebeler's eyes came up questioningly to his own, he, too, was looking off through the raised window where the limp curtain barely trembled in the light breeze.

"The ring is interesting," suggested the Consul.

"The arms seem to be those of a family of Galavia which is connected with Royalty. Did you pick it up in a curio shop? If so, some servant must have stolen it."

Blanco stood up. "We waste time fencing, Senor Reebeler," he said, "His Grace, Louis Delgado, was held captive by the King until several days ago. He then escaped. That escape has been kept secret by the King. Only men in the Duke's confidence know of it. I am in the service of His Grace and I report to you. In these times we do not carry signed letters of introduction—those of us at least who are not protected behind the insignia of Consular office."

There was a long silence. Reebeler, under the influence of brandy and perplexity, breathed heavily. Blanco poured from a squat bottle and watched the soda bubble in the glass.

Finally the Consul inquired with a show of indifference: "Why do you assume that I know anything of this matter?"

Blanco laughed. "I have already told you that I come from His Grace. Naturally His Grace knew to whom to commend me. I have frankly given myself into your hands by declaring my sentiments. On the other hand, you decline a similar confidence. You are discreet." He waved his hand. "Adios."

"Wait." The Consul stopped him at the door. He paused, cleared his throat and then abruptly suggested: "Suppose you return to-morrow at six."

The Spaniard bowed. "I only wish you to test me, Senor."

That evening Blanco knew that he was being shadowed. The next day he had the same sense of being incessantly watched. This was a thing which he had expected and for which he was prepared. Promptly at six o'clock he returned to the Rue do Consilhiero.

He knew that his greatest danger lay in the possibility of communication by the conspirators with the Duke or the Countess, but he had been assured that Marie Astaride was in Cairo and it could safely be assumed that Delgado would return to Galavia only at the psychological moment. If either of these assumptions were false Louis would, of course, recognize the description of his kidnapper. The Countess would connect the episode of the ring with the former checkmating of her plans. At all events, he must chance those possibilities.

This time the Consulate was discreetly shut in by drawn jealousies. Within, beside Reebeler himself, were a number of men, all of whom narrowly scrutinized the newcomer. Those who were not in uniform carried themselves with a cocky smartness that belied their civilian clothes. The man from Cadiz returned their gaze with the same imperturbable steadiness and the same concealed wariness which he had employed when, in the Plaza de Toros, he awaited the charge of the bull.

For a time they allowed him to stand in silence under the embarrassing batteries of their eyes, then an elderly officer assumed the position of spokesman.

"If you are a spy your experience will be brief," he announced.

Blanco smiled.

"That is as it should be, Senor. Spies are not entitled to an old age."

"We are going to test you," continued the officer. "We have need of men of courage. If, as you claim, the Duke sent you, he must have done so because he regarded you as available. If you prove trustworthy, all right. If not, it is your misfortune, because in the place where we mean to use you you will have no opportunity to betray us, and a very excellent opportunity of meeting death. We cannot now communicate with His Grace for corroboration, so we shall let you prove yourself. You seem to bear no message from the Duke. That has the smell of suspicion."

"On the contrary," retorted the Spaniard, "the Duke believed that a man who was a stranger might prove of value. I was to take my instructions from you."

Blanco wondered vaguely what the future held for him. Evidently their acceptance of his services was to bear a close resemblance to imprisonment. He could see in the programme small opportunity to serve the King. His instructions had been to win into their confidence and do what he could.

* * * * *

Two weeks later, in the small garden giving off from the King's private apartments, and perched half-way up the buttressed side of the rock on which sat the Palace, Karyl impatiently awaited the coming of Colonel Von Ritz. Below he could hear a brass band in the Botanical Gardens and out in the bay a German war-ship, decorated for a dance, blazed like a set piece in a pyrotechnic display.

There was peace, summer, perfume, in the moonlit air and Karyl smiled ironically as he reflected that even the bodyguard so carefully selected by Von Ritz might at any moment enter the place and raise the shout of "Long live King Louis!"

Leaning over the parapet, he could see one of his fantastically uniformed soldiery pacing back and forth before a sentry-box, his musket jauntily shouldered, and a bayonet glinting at his belt. Karyl stood looking, and his lips curled skeptically as he wondered whether the man would repel or admit assassins.

Somewhat wearily the King turned and leaned on the stone coping of the outer wall. He was at one end where a shadow cloaked him, but he lighted a cigarette and the match that flared up threw an orange-red light on his face, showing eyes which were lusterless. For a few moments he held the match in his hollowed palms, coaxing its blaze in the breeze. Before it had burned out there came a sharp report and Karyl heard the spat of flattening lead on the masonry at his back. The echo rattled along the rocky side of the hill. One of the sentry-boxes had answered his unasked question of loyalty.

He waited. There was no rush of feet. No medley of anxiously inquiring voices. Others had heard the report, of course, yet no one hastened to inquire and investigate. The King, pacing farther back where his silhouette was less clearly defined, laughed again, very bitterly.

Finally Von Ritz came. "It seems that we can rely on no one," he said. "The Palace Guard had been picked from the few in whom I still believed. I had hoped there was a trustworthy remnant."

"One of them has just tried a shot at me with one of my own muskets." The King spoke impersonally as though the matter bore only on the psychic question of trusting men. "The spot is there on the wall." Then he added with bitter whimsicality: "It seems to me, Colonel, that we have either very poor marksmen in our service, or else we supply them with very poor rifles."

For a moment Von Ritz almost smiled. "I was passing the point as he touched the trigger, Your Majesty," he replied with calmness. "I will personally vouch for his future harmlessness."

The lighted door, at the same moment, framed the figure of an aide. "Your Majesty," he said with a bow, "Monsieur Jusseret prays a brief audience."

Karyl turned to Von Ritz, his brows arching interrogation. In answer the Colonel wheeled and addressed the officer, who waited statuesquely: "His Majesty will not receive Monsieur Jusseret. Any matters of interest to France will receive His Majesty's attention when they reach him through France's properly accredited ambassador."

Yet five minutes later, Jusseret, escorted by several officers in the Galavian uniform, entered the garden through the door of the King's private suite. At the monstrous insolence of this forbidden invasion of Karyl's privacy, Von Ritz stepped forward. His voice was even colder than usual with the chill of mortal fury.

"You have evidently misunderstood. The King declined to receive you—" he began.

Karyl turned his head and looked curiously on. The keen, dissipated eyes of the sub-rosa diplomat twinkled humorously. For a moment the thin lips twisted into a wry smile.

"The King is hardly in a position that warrants declining to receive me," he announced with an ironically ceremonious bow to Karyl. He was imperturbable and impeccable from his patent-leather pumps to the Legion of Honor ribbon in his lapel.

"I offer the King an opportunity to abdicate his throne—and retain his liberty. Not only do I offer him his liberty, but also such an income as will make the cafes of Paris possible, and the society of other gentlemen who are also—well, let us say retired Royalties. I do this in the capacity of a private friend of the Grand Duke Louis Delgado." His smile was bland, suave, undisturbed.

Von Ritz took a step forward.

"Escort Monsieur Jusseret to the Palace gates!" he commanded, his eyes blazing on the Galavian officers. "The persons of even secret Ambassadors are sacred—otherwise—" His voice failed him.

The officers cringed back under his glance, but stood supine and inactive.

Karyl waited with a cold smile on his lips. His face was pale but there was no touch of fear in the expression. For a brief psychological moment there was absolute silence, then the Frenchman spoke again. "Gentlemen, you are my prisoners." Turning to the Colonel, he added: "You have clung to the waning dynasty, Von Ritz, until it fell, but your sword may still find service in Galavia. I offer you the opportunity. We have often crossed wits. Now, for the first time, I win—and offer amnesty."

For a moment Von Ritz stood white and trembling with rage, then with his open hand he struck the smiling face that seemed to float tauntingly before his eyes, and drawing his sword, stepped between the King and the suddenly concentrated group of officers who moved frontward with a single accord, hands on swords. They spread from a group into a line, and the line quickly closed in a circle around the King and the one man who remained loyal.

Karyl was himself unarmed. He raised a restraining hand to Von Ritz's shoulder, but before he could speak his head sagged forward under the impact of some sudden shock—some blow from behind—and things went dark about him as he crumpled to his knees and fell.

Von Ritz, struggling desperately with a broken blade in his hand was slowly overwhelmed by seeming swarms of men. Like a tiger caught in a net, his ferocity gradually waned until, bleeding from scratch-wounds in a half-dozen places, he felt himself sinking into a haze. His useless sword-hilt fell with a clatter to the tiles. As his arms were pinioned by several of his captors, he was dreamily aware that music still floated up from the Botanical Gardens and the German man-of-war. Nearer at hand, Von Ritz heard—or perhaps dreamed through his stupor that he heard—a voice exclaiming: "Long live King Louis!"

There had been no noise which could have penetrated beyond the King's suite. Less than ten minutes had elapsed since the sentinel had been pacing below. Jusseret, passing unostentatiously out through the Palace gate, glanced at his watch and smiled. It had been excellently managed.

Later, Karyl recovered consciousness to find things little changed. He was lying on a leather couch in his own rooms. The windows on the small garden still stood open and the moon, riding farther down the west, bathed the outer world in shimmer of silver, but at each door stood a sentinel.

Karyl remembered that during Louis Delgado's recent captivity he had fared in precisely the same manner, neither better nor worse.

The King rose, still a trifle unsteady from the blow he had received, and went out into the garden. There was no effort on the part of the saluting soldier to halt him, and once outside he realized why this latitude was allowed him. In addition to the man at the door, a second walked back and forth by the outer wall. As Karyl stepped into the moonlight this man, himself in the shadow, saluted as his fellow had done.

"I have the honor to command the guard, Your Grace," said the man in a respectful voice. "It is by the order of His Majesty, King Louis." Something in the enunciation puzzled Karyl with a hint of the familiar.

"Why do you remain outside?" he asked.

"Over this wall, any comparatively agile man might make his way to the beach, if he succeeded in passing the muskets of the sentry-boxes—and there are boats at the water's edge," explained the soldier with a short laugh. "I am responsible for the guard, so I keep this post myself. I believe myself incorruptible and men with thrones at stake might make tempting offers."

Karyl smiled. "What would you regard as a tempting offer?" he suggested.

For answer the man came into the light and lifted his cap. The King looked into the dark eyes of Manuel Blanco. "I won into their confidence by the hardest," he explained in a lowered tone, "but after that, I had no opportunity to leave them or communicate with you. This was all I could do. As it is, I shall be recognized as soon as the Duke arrives."

Blanco raised his voice again in casual conversation and beckoned to the sentinel at the door. When the man approached the Spaniard pointed over the wall. "Do you see that rock? Is that a figure crouching behind its shelter?" he demanded. As the man leaned forward, Manuel suddenly struck him heavily at the back of the neck with a loose stone caught up from the masonry's coping. The soldier dropped without a sound.

"Now, Your Majesty, we must risk it down the rock," prompted the man from Cadiz, in hurried, low-pitched words. "Moments are invaluable.... It is only while I command the guard that there is a chance of your escape.... An officer may come at any instant on a round of inspection—my discovery as the Duke's kidnapper is a matter of minutes.... I have been watched and tested in a hundred ways; it was only to-day that I convinced them of my fanatic zeal."

Blanco hurriedly gave his cap and cape to the King, donning himself the blouse of Karyl's undress uniform. Then the two crept cautiously down the rifted face of the cliff, holding the shadow of the crevices. One sentry-box they passed safely, and finally they edged by the second unnoticed. They had negotiated the hundred feet of descent and stood pressed against the bottom, hugging the black shadow. They were waiting an opportunity to slip across a narrow sliver of intervening moonlight to the beach and the boat which lay at the water's edge.

Occasional lazy clouds drifted across the sky. The two refugees, goaded by the realization that every wasted second cut their desperate hope more and more to a vanishing point, watched the fleecy scraps of mist skim by the moon afar off without veiling its face. Then for a short moment a shred of silver-tipped cloud cut off the radiance. Blanco seized the King's arm in a wordless signal. Karyl and the bull-fighter raced across to the boat that lay at the water's edge. In a moment more it was afloat and they were at the oars. The moon emerged and at the same instant an outcry came from above. The musket of the man in the lower sentry-box barked with a blatant reverberation. One of the figures in the boat drooped forward and sagged limply over his oars. The other only redoubled his efforts. And then again, like the curtain of a theater, a cloud dropped downward and quenched the moon and the sea and the rock in impartial obscurity.



CHAPTER XXIII

"SCARABS OF A DEAD DYNASTY"

Since the anchor had been weighed at Naples, the days had passed uneventfully for the indolently cruising Isis with no word from Galavia. But at last the operator caught his call and made ready to receive. The message consisted of one word, and the word was "Cairo."

Cara, with no suspicion of what was transpiring in Puntal, beguiled by the spell of smooth seas and dolce-far-niente softness of sky, was once more the frank and charming companion of the American days.

The single word of the Marconigram had left the American in perplexity. Evidently either Karyl or Von Ritz was to meet them at Cairo. Probably Cairo instead of Alexandria had been designated because the King had taken into consideration the possible danger from the plague at the seaport. He told Cara only that Karyl would join the vacation party there and kept to himself the reservation that his coming probably meant disaster. Yet when they reached Cairo there was no news awaiting them.

It was the night of a confetti fete at Shephard's Hotel. Among the trees of the gardens were ropes of lights and the soft color-spots of Chinese lanterns. Branches glittered with incandescent fruit of brilliant colors. Flags hung between the fronds of the palms and the plumes of the acacias, and among the pleasure-seekers from East and West of Suez fell pelting showers of confetti.