The Lighted Match

She placed the image before her and rested her chin on one hand, gazing

at its grotesque and ancient visage.

Her eyes slowly filled with tears. Again she dropped her face on her

arms and the tears overflowed.

* * * * * Benton and Bristow had been sitting without speech as their motor

threaded its way through the traffic along Fourteenth Street, and it was

not until the chauffeur had turned north on Fifth Avenue that either

spoke. Then Benton roused himself out of seeming lethargy to inquire

with suddenness: "Do you remember the bull-fight we saw in Seville?"

His companion looked up, suppressing his surprise at a question so

irrelevant.

"You mean the Easter Sunday performance," he asked, "when that negligent

banderillero was gored?"

"Just so," assented Benton. "Do you remember the chap we met afterwards

at one of the cafés? He was being fêted and flattered for the brilliancy

of his work in the ring. His name was Blanco."

"Sure I remember him." Van talked glibly, pleased that the conversation

had turned into channels so impersonal. "He was a fine-looking chap with

the grace of a Velasquez dancing-girl and the nerve of a bull-terrier.

I remember he was more like a grandee than a toreador. We had him dine

with us--hard bread--black olives--fish--bad wine--all sorts of native

truck. For the rest of our stay in Seville he was our inseparable

companion. Do you remember how the street gamins pointed us out? Why, it

was like walking down Broadway with your arm linked in that of Jim

Jeffries!"

He paused, somewhat disconcerted by his companion's steady gaze; then,

taking a fresh start, he went on, talking fast.

"Besides sticking bulls, he could discuss several topics in several

languages. I recall that he had been educated for the Church. If he

hadn't felt the lure of the strenuous life, he might have been

celebrating Mass instead of playing guide for us. In the end he'd have

won a cardinal's hat."

The fixity of the other's stare at last chilled and quelled his chatter

to an embarrassed silence. He realized that the object of his mild

subterfuge was transparent.

"I'm after his address--not his biography," suggested Benton coolly.

"His name was Manuel Blanco, wasn't it?"

"Why, yes, I believe it was. What do you want with him?"

"Never mind that," returned his friend. "Do you happen to know where he

lived? I seem to recall that you promised to write him frequent

letters."

"By Jove, so I did," acknowledged Van with humility. "I must get busy.

He is a good sort. His address--" He paused to search through his

pocket-book for a small tablet dedicated to names and numbers, then

added: "His address is Numero 18, Calle Isaac Peral, Cadiz."

Benton was scribbling the direction on the back of an envelope.