The Lighted Match

Slowly, with a gesture almost subconscious, Benton slipped an unopened

envelope from his breast pocket; turned it over; looked at it and

slipped it back, still unopened. Then, leaning heavily on his elbow, he

gazed off, frowning, over the rail of the yacht's forward deck.

The waters that lap the quays and wharves of Old Cadiz, green as jade

and quiet as farm-yard pools, were darkening into inkiness toward shore.

White walls that had been like ivory were turning into ashy gray behind

the Bateria San Carlos and the pillars of the Entrada. The molten

sun was sinking into a rich orange sky beyond the Moorish dome and

Christian towers of the cathedral.

Shafts of red and green wavered and quaked in the black dock waters.

Between the hulks of cork- and salt-freighters, the steam yacht Isis

slipped with as graceful a motion as that of the gulls. Then when the

anchor chains ran gratingly out, Benton turned on his heel and went to

his cabin.

Behind a bolted door he dropped into a chair and sat motionless. Finally

the right hand wandered mechanically to his breast pocket and brought

out the envelope. He read for the thousandth time the endorsement in the

corner.

"Not to be opened until the evening of March 5th," and under that, "I

love you."

There was another envelope; an outer one much rubbed from the pocket. It

was directed in her hand and the blurred postmark bore a date in

February. He could have described every mark upon the enclosing cover

with the precision of a careful detective. When his impatient fingers

had first torn off the end, only to be confronted by the order: "Not to

be opened until the evening of March 5th," he had fallen back on

studying outward marks and indications. In the first place, it had been

posted from Puntal, and instead of the familiar violet stamp of

Maritzburg, with which her other letters had been franked during the two

months past, this stamp was pink, and its medallion bore the profile of

Karyl.

That she had left Maritzburg, and that she had written him a message to

be sealed for a month, meant that the date of March 5th had

significance. That she was in Galavia meant that the significance

was--he winced.

On the calendar of a bronze desk-set, the first four days of March were

already cancelled. Now, taking up a blue pencil, he crossed off the

number five. After that he looked at his watch. It wanted one minute of

six. He held the timepiece before him while the second-hand ticked its

way once around its circle, then with feverish impatience he tore the

end from the envelope.

Benton's face paled a little as he drew out the many pages covered with

a woman's handwriting, but there was no one to see that or to notice the

tremor of his fingers.