ooked up, suppressing his surprise at a question so
irrelevant.

"You mean the Easter Sunday performance," he asked, "when that negligent
_banderillero_ was gored?"

"Just so," assented Benton. "Do you remember the chap we met afterwards
at one of the cafes? He was being feted and flattered for the brilliancy
of his work in the ring. His name was Blanco."

"Sure I remember him." Van talked glibly, pleased that the conversation
had turned into channels so impersonal. "He was a fine-looking chap with
the grace of a Velasquez dancing-girl and the nerve of a bull-terrier.
I remember he was more like a grandee than a _toreador_. We had him dine
with us--hard bread--black olives--fish--bad wine--all sorts of native
truck. For the rest of our stay in Seville he was our inseparable
companion. Do you remember how the street gamins pointed us out? Why, it
was like walking down Broadway with your arm linked in that of Jim
Jeffries!"

He paused, somewhat disconcerted by his companion's steady gaze; then,
taking a fresh start, he went on, talking fast.

"Besides sticking bulls, he could discuss several topics in several
languages. I recall that he had been educated for the Church. If he
hadn't felt the lure of the strenuous life, he might have been
celebrating Mass instead of playing guide for us. In the end he'd have
won a cardinal's hat."

The fixity of the other's stare at last chilled and quelled his chatter
to an embarrassed silence. He realized that the object of his mild
subterfuge was transparent.

"I'm after his address--not his biography," suggested Benton coolly.
"His name was Manuel Blanco, wasn't it?"

"Why, yes, I believe it was. What do you want with him?"

"Never mind that," returned his friend. "Do you happen to know where he
lived? I seem to recall that you promised to write him frequent
letters."

"By Jove, so I did," acknowledged Van with humility. "I must get busy.
He is a good sort. His address--" He paused to search through his
pocket-book for a small tablet dedicated to names and numbers, then
added: "His address is _Numero 18, Calle Isaac Peral_, Cadiz."

Benton was scribbling the direction on the back of an envelope.

"You needn't grow penitent and start a belated correspondence," he
suggested. "I am going to write him myself--and I'm going to visit
him."

CHAPTER IX

THE TOREADOR APPEARS

Slowly, with a gesture almost subconscious, Benton slipped an unopened
envelope from his b