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 s