Hers was the allurement of poppy and passion-flower.  In her movements was suggestion of vital feminine force.

Perhaps the incurious glance of the American made itself felt, for as she threw down a fresh louis d’or, she looked up and their eyes met.  For an instant her expression was almost that of one who stifles an impulse to recognize another.  Possibly, thought Benton, she had mistaken him for someone else.

“Mon dieu,” whispered a voice in French, “the Comptessa d’Astaride is charming this evening.”

“Ah, such wit!  Such charm!” enthused another voice at Benton’s back.  “She is most perfect in those gowns of unbroken lines, with a single rose.”  Evidently the men left the tables at once, for Benton heard no more.  He also turned away a moment later to make way for an Italian in whose feverish eyes burned the roulette-lust.  He went to the farthest end of the gardens, where there was deep shadow, and a seaward outlook over the cliff wall.  There the glare of electric bulbs and blazing doorways was softened, and the orchestra’s music was modulated.  Presently he was startled by a ripple of laughter at his shoulder, low and rich in musical vibrance.

“Ah, it is not like this in your gray, fog-wrapped country.”

Benton wheeled in astonishment to encounter the dazzling smile of the Countess Astaride.  She was standing slender as a young girl, all agleam in the half-light as though she wore an armor of glowing copper and garnets.

“I beg your pardon,” stammered the American, but she laid a hand lightly on his arm and smilingly shook her head.

“I know, Monsieur Martin, we have not met, but you were with the Duke at Cadiz.  You have come in his interest.  In his cause, I acknowledge no conventions.”  In her voice was the fusing of condescension and regal graciousness.  “It was wise,” she thoughtfully added, “to shave your mustache, but even so Von Ritz will know you.  You cannot be too guarded.”

For an instant Benton stood with his hands braced on the coping regarding her curiously.  Evidently he stood on the verge of some revelation, but the role in which her palpable mistake cast him was one he must play all in the dark.

“You can trust me,” she said with an impassioned note but without elevating her voice.  “I am the Countess—­”

“Astaride,” finished Benton.

Then he cautiously added the inquiry:  “Have you heard the plans that were discussed by the Duke, and Jusseret and Borttorff?”

“And yourself and Lieutenant Lapas,” she augmented.

“And Lapas and myself,” admitted Benton, lying fluently.

“I know only that Louis is to wait at his lodge to hear by wireless whether France and Italy will recognize his government,” she hastily recited; “and that on that signal you and Lapas wait to strike the blow.”

“Do you know when?” inquired the American, fencing warily in the effort to lead her into betrayal of more definite information.