ist'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."

"Assume 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 impassive 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 n