"Once, dear, I was strong enough to say 'no' to you. Twice I could not
be."
The reader paused and scowled at the wall with set jaws.
"But when you read this, almost three thousand miles away, there will be
only a few days between me and (it is hard to say it) the marriage and
the coronation. He is to be crowned on the same day that we are married.
Then I suppose I can't even write what is in my heart."
Benton rose and paced the narrow confines of the cabin. Suddenly he
halted. "Even under sealed orders," he mused slowly, "one may dispose of
three thousand miles. They, at least, are behind." A countenance
somewhat drawn schooled its features into normal expressionlessness, as
a few moments afterward he rose to open the door in response to a
rapping outside.
As the door swung in a smile came to Benton's face: the first it had
worn since that night when he had taken leave of Hope.
"You, Blanco!" he exclaimed. "Why, hombre, the anchor is scarce down.
You are prompt!"
The physically superb man who stood at the threshold smiled. The gleam
of perfect teeth accentuated the swarthy olive of his face and the crisp
jet of his hair. His brown eyes twinkled good-humoredly. Jaw, neck and
broad shoulders declared strength, while the slenderness of waist and
thigh hinted of grace--a hint that every movement vindicated. It was the
grace of the bull-fighter, to whom awkwardness would mean death.
"I had your letter. It was correctly directed--Manuel Blanco, Calle
Isaac Peral." The Spaniard smiled delightedly. "When one is once more
to see an old friend, one does not delay. How am I? Ah, it is good of
the Señor to ask. I do well. I have retired from the Plaza de Toros.
I busy myself with guiding parties of touristos here and abroad--and
in the collection and sale of antiques. But this time, what is your
enterprise or pleasure, Señor? What do you in Spain?"
"My business in Spain," replied Benton slowly, "is to get out of Spain.
After that I don't know. Will you go and take chances of anything that
might befall? I sent for you to ask you whether you have leisure to
accompany me on an enterprise which may involve danger. It's only fair
to warn you."
Blanco laughed. "Who reads mañana?" he demanded, seating himself on
the edge of the table, and busying his fingers with the deft rolling of
a cigarette. "The toreador does not question the Prophets. I am at
your disposition. But the streets of Cadiz await us. Let us talk of it
all over the table d'hôte."
An hour later found the two in the Calle Duke de Tetuan, blazing with
lights like a jeweler's show-case.