CHAPTER XVII

BENTON CALLS ON THE KING

There were several things to harrow Benton’s thoughts aside from the ingenious tortures of memory.  Blanco should have arrived at Monte Carlo on the day of their separation.  Benton himself had proceeded slowly to Puntal and had now been an isolated guest at the Grand Palace Hotel for two days, yet he had heard nothing from Manuel.  Still the man from Cadiz had not been idly cruising.  The Isis had duly dropped her anchor in the ultramarine waters where the rock of Monaco juts out like a beckoning finger, and Monte Carlo spreads the marble display of its rococo facades at the feet of the Maritime Alps.

That night, in the most detailed perfection of evening dress, he wandered good-humoredly, yet aloof, through the crowds.  He haunted the groups that swarmed about the busy wheels in the casino.  He mingled with the diners upon the terraces of the principal hotels.  He brushed elbows with the strollers along the promenade and about the Cercle des Etrangers, and all the while his studiously alert eyes wandered with seeming vacancy of expression over the faces of the men and women whom he passed.

Safe in the surety of being himself unknown, he trained his countenance into the ennui of one who has no object beyond killing the hour and contributing his quota to the income of the syndicate.

The evening was wasted, together with a few louis, and the next morning found the Spaniard scrutinizing every face along the Promenade des Anglais at Nice.  Then he searched Cannes and Mentone, but by evening he was back again in the sacred City of Black and Red.

As he disembarked from the yacht’s launch and came up the white stairs to the landing-stage, his eyes were still indolently wandering, but before he reached the level of the Boulevard de la Condamine, the expression changed with the suddenness of discovery into a glint almost triumphant.  It was only with strong effort that he banished the satisfied light from his pupils and forced them to wander absently again, along the glitter and color of the palm-lined promenade.

For Manuel had seen a slender, well-groomed figure leaning on the coping of the sea-wall and gazing out with obvious amusement on the life of the harbor.  Although the Spaniard did not allow himself a second glance, he knew that his search was ended.  The attention of the man above was dreamily fixed on the bay where a dozen darting motor-boats cut swift courses hither and thither.  His attitude was graceful.  His bearing might have been almost noble except for a deplorable lack of frankness which spoiled otherwise fine eyes, and a self-indulgent weakness which marred the angle of the chin.

The Bay at Monte Carlo is a haven for luxurious craft.  Now the Prince of Monaco’s yacht lay at anchor and several others, hardly less handsome, rode snugly offshore, but with the enthusiasm of a connoisseur the tall gentleman disregarded all the rest and let his admiring gaze dwell on the Isis.