His companion looked 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 breast pocket; turned it over; looked at it and slipped it back, still unopened.  Then, leaning heavily on his elbow, he gazed off, frowning, over the rail of the yacht’s forward deck.

The waters that lap the quays and wharves of Old Cadiz, green as jade and quiet as farm-yard pools, were darkening into inkiness toward shore.  White walls that had been like ivory were turning into ashy gray behind the Bateria San Carlos and the pillars of the Entrada.  The molten sun was sinking into a rich orange sky beyond the Moorish dome and Christian towers of the cathedral.