The Lighted Match

When Benton had straightened out his car for the run to the city, and

the road had begun to slip away under the tires, he turned to McGuire,

his chauffeur.

"McGuire," he inquired, "where is the runabout?"

"At 'Idle Times,' sir. You loaned it to Mr. Bristow to fill up the

garage."

"I remember. Now, listen!" And as Benton talked a slow grin of

contentment spread across the visage of Mr. McGuire, hinting of some

enterprise that appealed to his venturesome soul with a lure beyond the

ordinary.

In the city, Benton was a busy man, though his visit to the costumer's

was brief. Coming out of the place, he fancied he caught a glimpse of

Von Ritz, but the view was fleeting and he decided that his eyes must

have deceived him. He had himself patronized a rather obscure shop,

recommended by Mr. McGuire. Von Ritz would presumably have selected some

more fashionable purveyor of disguises even had his assertion that he

would not masquerade been made only to deceive. Perhaps, thought the

American, Colonel Von Ritz was becoming an obsession with him, merely

because he stood for Galavia and the threat of royalty's mandate. He was

convinced of this later in the day, when he once more fancied that a

disappearing pair of broad shoulders belonged to the European. This time

he laughed at the idea. The surroundings made the supposition ludicrous.

It was among the tawdry shops of ship chandlers in the East Side, where

he himself had gone in search of certain able seamen in the company of

the sailing-master of the Isis. Von Ritz would hardly be consorting

with the fo'castle men who frequent the water front below Brooklyn

Bridge.

The few days of the last week raced by, with all the charm of sky and

field that the magic of Indian summer can lavish, and for Benton and

Cara, they raced also with the sense of fast-slipping hope and

relentlessly marching doom. Outwardly Cara set a pace for vivacious and

care-free enjoyment that left Mrs. Porter-Woodleigh, the

"semi-professional light-hearted lady," as O'Barreton named her, "to

trail along in the ruck." Alone with Benton, there was always the furrow

between the brows and the distressed gaze upon the mystery beyond the

sky-line, but Pagratide and Von Ritz were vigilant, to the end that

their tête-à-têtes were few.

Neither Benton nor Cara had alluded to the man's overbold assertion that

he would find a way. It was a futile thing said in eagerness. The day of

the dance, the last day they could hope for together, came unprefaced by

development. To-morrow she must take up her journey and her duty: her

holiday would be at its end. It was all the greater reason why this

evening should be memorable. He should think of her afterward as he saw

her to-night, and it pleased her that in the irresponsibility of the

maskers she should appear to him in the garb of vagabond liberty, since

in fact freedom was impossible to her.