“I didn’t know you had come,” said Benton quietly.  “How long have you been here?”

“I should say a half-hour, Senor,” replied Manuel, casually rolling a cigarette.

“Why didn’t you rouse me?  I’m not very amusing, but even I could have relieved the dullness of sitting there like a marooned man on a derelict.”

“Dullness?” inquired the toreador with a lazy lift of the brows.  “It is ease, Senor, and ease is desirable—­at sea.”

The American sat cross-legged on the deck and held out his hand for a cigarette.  When he asked a question he spoke in matter-of-fact tones.  He even laughed, and the Andalusian chatted on in kind, but secretly and narrowly he was watching the other, and when he had finished his scrutiny he told himself that Benton had been indulging in the dangerous pastime of brooding.

“Tell me—­everything,” urged the yacht-owner.  “What are the revolutionists doing and how is—­how are things?” Carefully he avoided directing any question to the point on which his eagerness for news was poignant hunger.

When Blanco told how Louis had left Galavia just before the soldiers reached the lodge, Benton’s face darkened.  “That was fatal blundering,” he complained.  “So long as Delgado is at large the Palace is menaced.  If they had taken him, and held him under surveillance, the Cabinet Noir would be disarmed.  Now they will try again.”

Blanco nodded.

“There is no charge they can make against him,” he mused.  “They cannot bring him back because the government cannot admit its peril.  Outwardly his bill of health is clean.  Assuredly when they let him slip, Senor, they committed a grave error.”

Benton rose and paced the deck in deep reflection.  At last he halted and spread his hands in a gesture half-despairing.

“My God!” he said in a low voice.  “The anxiety will drive me mad!  You saw their methods.  An entire cortege was to be blown into the air—­just to kill Karyl.  Next time, what will they attempt?” He broke off with a shudder.

“I have seen the Queen,” said Blanco slowly.

Benton wheeled.  For an instant his face lighted, then he leaned forward.  He said nothing, but his whole attitude was a question.

“You behold in me, Sir Manuel Blanco,” began the Andalusian grandly.  Then, slipping his arm through that of the other man, he began leading him around the deck.  When he had finished his narrative, he said:  “I begin my office as Ambassador by delivering this packet.”  From his pocket he produced the paper-wrapped rose.  “I was instructed to give it to you at some future time.  Possibly, Senor, I am over-prompt.  Lawyers and diplomats should be deliberate.”

The Mediterranean day had died slowly from east to west while the men had talked, and the last shred of glowing sky was darkening into the sea at the edge of the world astern, when Benton greedily thrust out his hand for the packet.