“Now, for God’s sake, what do you mean?” he demanded.

“That’s all,” replied the young tourist.  “They’ve switched Kings.  Oh, it was so quietly done that the people of the city of Puntal don’t know yet it’s happened.  The King died suddenly and Louis will ascend his throne.”

“The King died suddenly!” Benton echoed the words blankly.  “I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I. But Martin said the King was taken prisoner and tried to escape.  He was shot.”

“How did Martin know?” asked Benton slowly, trying to realize the full import of the boy’s chatter.

“The news hasn’t reached here, generally speaking.  He said that the King’s death has not even been made public there, but the Countess Astaride has been stopping here.  Martin himself was in her party and he helped her to decipher the news from the Duke’s code-telegram.”  He paused.  “However,” he added, “that may not interest you.  The story probably bored you at first, but having told you the original tale, I had to add the sequel.  What I really wanted to ask you, is to present me to the wonderful American girl.  You will, won’t you?”

Benton’s back was turned to the window.  He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief and stared at nothing.

“You will, won’t you?” repeated the boy.

“Oh, yes, of course,” Benton replied mechanically.  “I shall ask permission to do so.”

Outside on the terraced veranda, where one sips tea and overlooks one of the most varied human tides that flows through any street of the world, Benton and Cara sat at a table near the edge—­the man wondering how he could tell her.  Fakirs with spangled shawls from Assouit, bead necklaces, ebony walking-sticks, scarabs and souvenir postcards jostled on the sidewalk to pass their wares over the railing.  Fat Arab guides with red fezes and the noisy jargon of half-mastered French and English discussed to-morrow’s journeys with industrious globe-trotters.

On the tiles squatted a juggler from India.  Under his white turban his glittering, beady eyes appraised the generosity of his audience as he arranged his flat baskets, his live rabbits and his hooded cobras for an exhibition of mercenary magic.

Along the street, heralded with tom-toms, came a procession of lurching camels, jogging donkeys, rattling carriages, acrobats leading dog-faced apes and trailing Arabs in fezes—­the pomp and pageantry of a pilgrim returning from Mecca.  Motors, victorias, detachments of cavalry swept by in unbroken and spectacular show.

Benton sat stiffly with his jaw muscles tightly drawn and his eyes dazed, looking at the girl across the table.

She turned from the street, eyes still sparkling with the reflected variety of the picture that hodge-podged Occident and Orient, telescoping the dead ages with to-day.

“Oh, I love things so,” she laughed.  “I’m as foolish as a child about things that are new.”