The Lighted Match

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 José 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 which perched the pavilions and casino of the

Strangers' Club was his property. Still more significant, to Blanco's

reasoning, was the fact that Reebeler, though Puntal-born, was of

British parentage and that over his house, in the Ruo do Consilhiero,

floated both British and American flags, while the double coat-of-arms

above his balcony proclaimed him the consular agent of both governments.

Here, reasoned Blanco, was a man shielded behind the devices of two

nations, neither of which was engaged in petty Mediterranean intrigue.

He would be the last man in Puntal to challenge a suspicious glance from

the Palace, yet as a man of moneyed enterprise his wish for concessions

might well give a political coloring to his thoughts. Somewhere he had

heard that the Strangers' Club aspired to the establishment of a

gambling Mecca which should rival Monte Carlo in magnitude and that the

present impediment was the frown of the government upon such a wholesale

gambling enterprise. It was quite unlikely that the Delgado government

would discourage a syndicate which could turn a munificent revenue into

its taxing coffers.

Through a shaded courtyard where a small fountain tinkled, Blanco

strolled to the Consular office and rapped on the door. He was conducted

by a native servant to an inner room. Here, while a great blue-bottle

fly droned and thumped, Reebeler, a heavy Briton with mild eyes,

sprawled his length in a wicker chair and poured brandy and soda. First

Blanco represented himself as an adoptive American, touring the world

and interested in natural resources. When his host had exhausted the

subject of the wine-grower's battle against the ravages of "oidium

Tuckeri" and "phyloxera," Blanco picked up a stick of sealing-wax

from the table and commenced toying with it in a manner of aimlessness.

He struck match after match and melted pellet after pellet of wax, then

absently he took from his pocket a gold seal-ring and made, with its

shield, several impressions on the wax. Reebeler's eyes were half-closed

as he gazed vacantly at the pigeons cooing and strutting in his

courtyard.