On the forward deck Benton stood leaning on the rail and looking toward the city.  At his side was Cara Carstow.  She was silent, but she shook her head, and the man’s solicitous scrutiny caught the deepening thought-furrow between her eyes, and the twitching of her fingers.

He bent forward and spoke softly.  “Cara, what is it?” She looked up and smiled.  “I was remembering that I stood just here, once before,” she said.

“Do you think,” he asked quietly, “that there has been a moment since then that I have not remembered it?  That night you belonged to me and I to you.”

“I guess,” she said rather wearily, “we don’t any of us belong to ourselves or to those we love most.  We just belong to Fate.”

“Cara!” He gripped the rail tightly and his words fell evenly.  “Over there in America, you admitted to me that you loved me.  That was when you were not yet Queen of Galavia.”  He brought himself up with a sudden halt.  She looked up as frankly as a child.

“I didn’t admit it,” she said.  “We only admit things against our will, don’t we?  I told you gladly.”

“And now—!” He held his breath as he looked into her eyes.

“Now I am the Queen of a hideous little Kingdom,” she shuddered.  “It wouldn’t do for me to say it now, would it?”

“Oh!” The man leaned again heavily on the rail.  The monosyllable was eloquent.  Impulsively she bent toward him, then caught herself.  For a moment she looked out at the water undulating under the moon like mother-of-pearl on a waving fan.  “But it was all right to say I loved you then,” she went on reflectively, after a pause.  “I had a perfect right then to tell you that I loved you better than all the small total of the world beside, and—­” her voice faltered for a moment—­“and,” with a musical laugh, she illogically added, “I have nothing to take back of what I then said, though of course I can’t ever say it again.”

CHAPTER XXII

THE SENTRY BOX ANSWERS THE KING’S QUERY

Several days later, Blanco arrived in Puntal shortly after the lazy noon hour.

Out of disconnected fragments of fact and memory he had evolved a theory.  It was a theory as yet immature and half-baked, but one upon which he resolved to act, trusting to the lucky outcome of subsequent events for the filling in of many gaps, and the making good of many deficiencies.

Among the shreds of fragmentary information which Manuel had previously stored away in his memory was the fact that one Jose Reebeler was a capitalist.  This was not exclusive information.  Every guide and casual acquaintance hastened to sing for the newcomer the saga of Reebeler’s importance.  One was informed that this magnate owned the three tourist hotels and their acres of vine-covered gardens; that he controlled the half-humorous pretense of a street-railway company and that even the huge, dominating rock upon