The Lighted Match

"See, I have at last got a good impression." The Spaniard idly tossed

over the scrap of paper upon which he had stamped a half-dozen of Louis

Delgado's crests from the die of the Comptessa Astaride's ring.

The Consul took the fragment of paper with the manner of one forced by

politeness to assume an interest in trivialities which bore him.

"See how clearly the device of His Grace stands out in the last

impression," casually suggested Blanco, then with eyes narrowly bent on

the other he saw the astonished start as his vis-a-vis realized what

device had been imprinted on the paper. It was the sign for which he had

played. When Reebeler's eyes came up questioningly to his own, he, too,

was looking off through the raised window where the limp curtain barely

trembled in the light breeze.

"The ring is interesting," suggested the Consul.

"The arms seem to be those of a family of Galavia which is connected

with Royalty. Did you pick it up in a curio shop? If so, some servant

must have stolen it."

Blanco stood up. "We waste time fencing, Señor Reebeler," he said,

"His Grace, Louis Delgado, was held captive by the King until several

days ago. He then escaped. That escape has been kept secret by the King.

Only men in the Duke's confidence know of it. I am in the service of His

Grace and I report to you. In these times we do not carry signed letters

of introduction--those of us at least who are not protected behind the

insignia of Consular office."

There was a long silence. Reebeler, under the influence of brandy and

perplexity, breathed heavily. Blanco poured from a squat bottle and

watched the soda bubble in the glass.

Finally the Consul inquired with a show of indifference: "Why do you

assume that I know anything of this matter?"

Blanco laughed. "I have already told you that I come from His Grace.

Naturally His Grace knew to whom to commend me. I have frankly given

myself into your hands by declaring my sentiments. On the other hand,

you decline a similar confidence. You are discreet." He waved his hand.

"Adios."

"Wait." The Consul stopped him at the door. He paused, cleared his

throat and then abruptly suggested: "Suppose you return to-morrow at

six."

The Spaniard bowed. "I only wish you to test me, Señor."

That evening Blanco knew that he was being shadowed. The next day he had

the same sense of being incessantly watched. This was a thing which he

had expected and for which he was prepared. Promptly at six o'clock he

returned to the Rue do Consilhiero.