Blanco fancied this was a secretary or attendant of some sort, and was conscious of slight surprise that as he entered the place he smoked a cigarette with a freedom scarcely fitting the King’s personal chambers.  At the window the gentleman halted and looked Blanco over with a frank but not offensive curiosity.  Manuel returned the gaze, wondering where he had seen the face before, yet unable to identify it.  Then the newcomer crossed and proffered the Spaniard a cigarette from a gold case, which the toreador declined with a shake of his head.

“Gracias, Senor,” he said, “but I am waiting for the King.”

The other smiled, and the visitor noticed that even in smiling his lips fell into lines of sadness.

“None the less,” he said pleasantly, “a man may as well have the solace of tobacco while he waits—­even though he awaits a King.”

The Andalusian once more shook his head, and the other continued to study him with that undisguised interest which his eyes had worn from the first.

“So you are one of the two men,” he said, “who learned what all the secret agents of the Throne failed to unearth.  Incidentally it is to you that the present King owes not only his Crown, but his life as well.”  He paused.

“After all,” he went on, “it is neither your fault nor Mr. Benton’s that the King could have done very well without either the Crown or his life.  You restored something which perhaps he held worthless....  But that is his own misfortune.”

Blanco’s expressive face mirrored a shade of resentment.  He had come on summons from the King and found himself listening to the familiar, even disrespectful, chatter of some underling who laughed at his Monarch and lightly appraised the value of his life while he smoked cigarettes in the Royal apartments.  The Spaniard bowed stiffly.

“I observe you are in the confidence of the King,” he said, in a tone not untouched with disapproval.

The other man’s lips curled in amusement.  After a moment he replied with simple gravity.

“I am the King.”

Blanco stood gazing in astonishment.  “You—­the King!” Then, recognizing that the shaving of a mustache and the change into civilian clothes had made the difference in a face and figure he had seen only on the streets and through shifting crowds, he bowed with belated deference.

Karyl once more held out his case.  “Now perhaps you will have a cigarette?”

The toreador took one and lighted it slowly.  The King went on.

“My sole pleasure is pretending that I am not a Monarch.  Between ourselves, I should prefer other employment.  You, for example, I am told have won fame in the bull ring—­and it was fame you earned for yourself.”

Blanco flushed, then, bethinking himself of the fact that he had been brought here presumably with a purpose, he ventured to suggest:  “Your Majesty wished to see me about some matter?”