t 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