As the door swung in a smile came to Benton’s face:  the first it had worn since that night when he had taken leave of Hope.

“You, Blanco!” he exclaimed.  “Why, hombre, the anchor is scarce down.  You are prompt!”

The physically superb man who stood at the threshold smiled.  The gleam of perfect teeth accentuated the swarthy olive of his face and the crisp jet of his hair.  His brown eyes twinkled good-humoredly.  Jaw, neck and broad shoulders declared strength, while the slenderness of waist and thigh hinted of grace—­a hint that every movement vindicated.  It was the grace of the bull-fighter, to whom awkwardness would mean death.

“I had your letter.  It was correctly directed—­Manuel Blanco, Calle Isaac Peral.”  The Spaniard smiled delightedly.  “When one is once more to see an old friend, one does not delay.  How am I?  Ah, it is good of the Senor to ask.  I do well.  I have retired from the Plaza de Toros.  I busy myself with guiding parties of touristos here and abroad—­and in the collection and sale of antiques.  But this time, what is your enterprise or pleasure, Senor?  What do you in Spain?”

“My business in Spain,” replied Benton slowly, “is to get out of Spain.  After that I don’t know.  Will you go and take chances of anything that might befall?  I sent for you to ask you whether you have leisure to accompany me on an enterprise which may involve danger.  It’s only fair to warn you.”

Blanco laughed.  “Who reads manana?” he demanded, seating himself on the edge of the table, and busying his fingers with the deft rolling of a cigarette.  “The toreador does not question the Prophets.  I am at your disposition.  But the streets of Cadiz await us.  Let us talk of it all over the table d’hote.”

An hour later found the two in the Calle Duke de Tetuan, blazing with lights like a jeweler’s show-case.

The narrow fissure between its walls was aflow with the evening current of promenaders, crowding its scant breadth, and sending up a medley of laughter and musical sibilants.  Grandees strolled stiffly erect with long capes thrown back across their left shoulders to show the brave color of velvet linings.  Young dandies of army and navy, conscious of their multi-colored uniforms, sifted along through the press, toying with rigidly-waxed mustaches and regarding the warm beauty of their countrywomen through keen, appreciative eyes, not untinged with sensuousness.  Here and there a common hombre in short jacket, wide, low-crowned sombrero and red sash, zig-zagged through the pleasure-seekers to cut into a darker side street whence drifted pungent whiffs of garlic, black olives and peppers from the stalls of the street salad-venders.  Occasionally a Moor in fez and wide-bagging trousers, passed silently through the volatile chatter, looking on with jet eyes and lips drawn down in an impervious dignity.