The other protested that his friend was too good.  He regarded himself highly honored.  He would be most charmed.  But apparently the idea was developing and Blanco was conceiving even more extended notions of hospitality.

“Stay!” he suddenly exclaimed.  “Why not breakfast with me, on board, to-morrow at twelve?  The launch will be at the landing at eleven forty-five.  I could take you cruising for a few knots, and let you test her sailing qualities, returning in abundant time for dinner and the amusements of the evening.”

Louis gave the matter a moment’s reflection, then declared that the programme was delightful.  He would not be engaged until the evening.

Blanco laughed uproariously.  “It is most amusing,” he declared.  “I have had supper with you—­you are to breakfast with me, and I have not yet told you my name!” He was searching for a card-case, which seemingly he had misplaced.  “I cannot find a card.  No matter, my name is Sir Manuel Blanco.”

The Duke smiled as he rose from the table and took up hat and cane.  “I was equally forgetful,” he said.  “My name is Monsieur Breuillard.”

The following day had advanced well into the afternoon, and Monsieur Breuillard had punctuated with graceful compliment each point of excellence in the equipment of the Isis, when Blanco led the way into the small smoking saloon.

“Sailing qualities may not have been fairly tested,” admitted Sir Manuel, “since the sea was serene, the sky brilliant, and the breeze insufficient to ruffle the water.”

“The more charming, Monsieur!” exclaimed the guest, whose mood after a pleasing day was mellow and complacent.

Blanco waved Monsieur Breuillard to an easy chair and pointed out cigars.  As chance would have it, he stood before the door, which he had just closed.

“By the way—­Your Grace—­” He broke off abruptly to mark the effect of the title on the other man.  Evidently he found it highly pleasing for he smiled as the Dreamer winced and came violently to his feet, pale and rigid, but as yet too astounded for speech.

“I did not tell you, did I,” went on the Spaniard, “that I have been Sir Manuel Blanco only a few days, and that the title was conferred on me by your royal kinsman, Karyl of Galavia, for a trifling service in confounding his enemies?  Before that I was a matador in Andalusia.”

Delgado stood petrified, his features livid and his eyes blazing with rage.  An instinct warned him that to surrender to passion would be only to trap himself more deeply.  The man blocking the door filled its breadth with his strong shoulders.  Louis turned his head and his eyes caught through the open porthole a glimpse of the receding shore-line of the Riviera.  Blanco followed the glance and smiled.

“We shall be losing shore in a short time,” he calmly announced.  “May I have the honor of showing Your Grace to your stateroom?”