The Lighted Match Part 12

An hour later found the two in the _Calle Duke de Tetuan_, blazing with lights like a jeweler's show-case.

The narrow fissure between its walls was aflow with the evening current of promenaders, crowding its scant breadth, and sending up a medley of laughter and musical sibilants. Grandees strolled stiffly erect with long capes thrown back across their left shoulders to show the brave color of velvet linings. Young dandies of army and navy, conscious of their multi-colored uniforms, sifted along through the press, toying with rigidly-waxed mustaches and regarding the warm beauty of their countrywomen through keen, appreciative eyes, not untinged with sensuousness. Here and there a common _hombre_ in short jacket, wide, low-crowned _sombrero_ and red sash, zig-zagged through the pleasure-seekers to cut into a darker side street whence drifted pungent whiffs of garlic, black olives and peppers from the stalls of the street salad-venders. Occasionally a Moor in fez and wide-bagging trousers, pa.s.sed silently through the volatile chatter, looking on with jet eyes and lips drawn down in an impervious dignity.

They found a table in one of the more prominent cafes from which they could view through the plate-gla.s.s front the parade in the street, as well as the groups of coffee-sippers within.

"Yonder," prompted Blanco, indicating with his eyes a near-by group, "he with the green-lined cape, is the Duke de Tavira, one of the richest men in Spain--it is on his estate that they breed the bulls for the rings of Cadiz and Seville. Yonder, quarreling over politics, are newspaper men and Republicans. Yonder, artists." He catalogued and a.s.sorted for the American the personalities about the place, presuming the curiosity which should be the tourist's attribute-in-chief.

"And at the large table--yonder under the potted palms, and half-screened by the plants--who are they?" questioned Benton perfunctorily. "They appear singularly engrossed in their talk."

"a.s.sume to look the other way, _Senor_, so they will not suspect that we speak of them," cautioned the Andalusian. "I dare say that if one could overhear what they say, he could sell his news at his own price.

Who knows but they may plan new colors for the map of Southern Europe?"

Benton's gaze wandered over to the table in question, then came uninquisitively back to Blanco's impa.s.sive face. It took more than European politics to distract him.

"International intrigue?" he inquired.

The eyes of the other were idly contemplating the street windows, and as he talked he did not turn them toward the men whom he described.

Occasionally he looked at Benton and then vacantly back to the street parade, or the red end of his own cigarette.

"There is a small, and, in itself, an unimportant Kingdom with Mediterranean sea-front, called Galavia," said Blanco. Benton's start was slight, and his features if they gave a telltale wince at the word became instantly casual again in expression. But his interest was no longer forced by courtesy. It hung from that moment fixed on the narrative.

"Ah, I see the _Senor_ knows of it," interpolated Blanco. "The tall man with the extremely pale face and the singularly piercing eye who sits facing us,"--Blanco paused,--"is the Duke Louis Delgado. He is the nephew of the late King of Galavia, and if--" the Spaniard gave an expressive shrug, and watched the smoke ring he had blown widen as it floated up toward the ceiling--"if by any chance, or mischance, Prince Karyl, who is to be crowned at Puntal three days hence, should be called to his reward in heaven, the gentleman who sits there would be crowned King of Galavia in his stead."

CHAPTER X

OF CERTAIN TRANSPIRINGS AT A CAFe TABLE

Benton's eyes seemed hypnotically drawn to the table pointed out, but he kept them tensely riveted on his coffee cup.

"Yes?" he impatiently prompted.

"Of course," continued Blanco absently, "no one could regret more profoundly than the Grand Duke any accident or fatality which might befall his royal kinsman, yet even the holy saints cannot prevent evil chances!" He paused to sip his coffee. "At the right of 'Louis, the Dreamer,' as he is called, sits the Count Borttorff, who is not greatly in favor with Prince Karyl. He, too, is a Galavian of n.o.ble birth, but Paris knows him better than Puntal. He on the left, the man with the puffed eyes and the dissipated mouth--you will notice also a scar over the left temple--" Blanco was regarding his cigarette tip as he flecked an ash to the floor--"is Monsieur Jusseret supposed to be high in the affairs of the French _Cabinet Noir_."

"There is one more--and a vacant chair," suggested Benton.

The _toreador_ nodded. "True, I had not forgotten the other. Tall, black-haired, not unlike yourself in appearance, _Senor_, save for a heavier jaw and the mustache which points upward. He is an Englishman by birth, a native of the world by adoption. Once he bore a British army commission. Now he is seen in distinguished society"--Blanco laughed--"when distinguished society wants something done which clean men will not do. His name, just now, is Martin. In many quarters he is better known as the English Jackal. Where one sees him one may scent conspiracy."

In all the life and color compa.s.sed between the four walls of Moorish tiles and arches, Benton felt the magnet of the group irresistibly drawing his eyes to itself.

"And this gathering about a table for a cup of coffee, in Cadiz--what of it?" argued Benton. He tried to speak as if his curiosity were dilute and his thoughts west of the Atlantic. "Are they not all known here?"

Again Blanco gave the expressive Spanish shrug.

"Few people here know any of them. I only said, _Senor_, that if any chance should cause Galavia to mourn her new King that same chance would elevate the tall, pale gentleman from a cafe table to a throne. I did not say that the chance would occur."

"And yet?" urged Benton, his eyes narrowing, "your words seem to hint more than they express. What is it, Manuel?"

The Spaniard took a handful of matches from a porcelain receptacle on the table. He laid one down.

"Let that match," he smilingly suggested, "stand for the circ.u.mstance of the Grand Duke leaving Paris for Cadiz which is--well, nearer to Puntal--and less observant than Paris." He laid another on the marble table-top with its sulphur head close to the first, so that the two radiated from a common center like spokes from a hub. "Regard that as a coincidence of the arrival of the Count Borttorff from the other direction, but at the same time, and at the precise season of the coronation and marriage of the King." He looked at the two matches, then successively laid down others, all with the heads at the common center.

"That," he said, "is the joining of the group by the distinguished Frenchman--that the presence of the English Jackal--that is the chance that runs against any King or Queen of meeting death. That--" he struck another match and held it a moment burning in his fingers "--regard that, _Senor_, as the flaring up of ambitions that are thwarted by a life or two."

He touched the burning match to the grouped tips of sulphur and his teeth gleamed white as he contemplated the little spurt of hissing flame. Then he dropped his flattened hand upon the tiny eruption and extinguished it, as his sudden grin died away to a bored smile.

[Ill.u.s.tration: HIS TEETH GLEAMED WHITE AS HE CONTEMPLATED THE LITTLE SPURT OF HISSING FLAME.]

"There, it is over," he yawned, "and of course it may not happen. _Quien sabe?_"

"And if they should flare up--" Benton spoke slowly, carefully, "others might suffer than the King?"

"How should one say? The King alone would suffice, but Kings are rarely found in solitude," reasoned the Andalusian. "For a brief moment Europe looks with eyes of interest on the feasting little capital. The King will not be alone. No, it must be--so one would surmise--at the coronation."

"Good G.o.d!" Benton gaspingly breathed the exclamation. "But, man, think of it--the women--the children--the utterly innocent people--the Queen!"

The Spaniard leaned back, balancing his chair on two legs, his hands spread on the table. "_Si, Senor_, it is regrettable. Yet nothing on earth appears so easy to supply as Kings--except Queens. And after all, what is it to us--an American millionaire--a Cadiz _toreador_?"

For a moment Benton was silent. When he spoke it was in quick, clear-clipped interrogation.

"You know Puntal and Galavia?"

"As I know Spain."

"Manuel, suppose the quaking of a throne _does_ interest me, you will go there with me--even though I may lead you where its fall may crush us both?"

The Spaniard grinned with a dazzling show of white teeth. His shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. "As well a tumbling castle wall as a charging bull."

"Good. The first thing is to learn all we can of Louis and his party."

"There is," observed Blanco calmly, "a table on this side also s.h.i.+elded by plants. From its angle we can observe,--and be ourselves protected from their view. However, we will first go for a stroll in the _calle_ and return. The change of position will then be less noticeable. Also, the _Senor's_ forehead is beaded with moisture. The air of the street will be grateful."

As Benton rose he noticed that the Grand Duke was leaning confidentially toward the member of the French _Cabinet Noir_.

Fifteen minutes later the two men were ensconced in their more sheltered coign, with wine gla.s.ses before them, and all the seeming of idle hours to kill.

"Is Louis ostensibly a friend of the throne?" demanded the American.

"Professedly, he is, _Senor_. He will write his felicitations when the marriage and the crowning occur--he will even send suitable gifts, but he will remain at his cafe here with his absinthe, or in Paris near the fair Comptessa Astaride, whom he adores, unless, of course, he goes to touch the match."

"Does he never return to Puntal?"

"Once in five years he has been there. Then he went quietly to his hunting lodge which is ten miles, as the crow flies from the capital, yet barred off by the mountain ridge. It is two days' journey by sea from Puntal, and save by the sea one comes only through the mountain pa.s.s, which is always guarded. Yet on that occasion heliographs reported his movements; the King's escort was doubled and the King went little abroad."

"Who stands at Louis' back? Revolutionists?"

"_Dios!_ No, _Senor_. The Galavians are cattle. Karyl or Louis, it is one to them. Galavia is a key. The key cares not at what porter's belt it jingles. Europe cares who opens and closes the lock. _Comprende?_ Spain cares, France cares, Italy cares, even the Northern nations care.