They found a table in one of the more prominent cafes from which they could view through the plate-glass front the parade in the street, as well as the groups of coffee-sippers within.

“Yonder,” prompted Blanco, indicating with his eyes a near-by group, “he with the green-lined cape, is the Duke de Tavira, one of the richest men in Spain—­it is on his estate that they breed the bulls for the rings of Cadiz and Seville.  Yonder, quarreling over politics, are newspaper men and Republicans.  Yonder, artists.”  He catalogued and assorted for the American the personalities about the place, presuming the curiosity which should be the tourist’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.