The Lighted Match
Page 81The Bay at Monte Carlo is a haven for luxurious craft. Now the Prince of
Monaco's yacht lay at anchor and several others, hardly less handsome,
rode snugly offshore, but with the enthusiasm of a connoisseur the tall
gentleman disregarded all the rest and let his admiring gaze dwell on
the Isis.
The face was studiously altered. Where there had been a full mustache
there was now only a thinly clipped line, waxed and uptilting in needle
points. It had been dark brown. Now it was black. The hair formerly
brushed straight back from the forehead now showed beneath the hat-band.
The Van Dyke which had masked the receding tendency of the chin was
appearance to the world, but the visionary eyes were unmistakably those
of Louis, the Dreamer, and in lapses of thought the fingers of the right
hand nervously twisted and untwisted, after the manner of an old
personal trick.
As Blanco came up the stairs he brushed clumsily against the stranger
and paused to apologize.
"I am inexcusably awkward," he avowed with engaging contriteness.
The Duke protested that it was not worth mention, and added with a
smile, "I noticed that you came from that yacht. I think she is one of
"Thank you, Monsieur." Blanco was apparently much flattered. "She is
American built, and has some appointments which I have not seen
elsewhere." Then smilingly, but in hot haste, he rushed away.
During the course of the evening the Andalusian contrived to throw
himself repeatedly across the Duke's path. On each occasion he appeared
to be in great haste and under the necessity of immediate departure,
though he never left without a cordial word of recognition. He played
his game so adroitly that at the end of the evening the Duke felt as
though he and the stranger from the American-built yacht were old and
It was as they stood watching the stiffer gambling of the elect in the
upper room of the Casino, after the wheels below had ceased to spin,
that the tall gentleman turned to Blanco.
"How do you say? Would a cup of coffee or a glass of wine go amiss?"
Without a trace of eagerness, the Andalusian assented and a few minutes
later he found himself across a café table at the Nouvel Hôtel de
Paris; listening to Louis, the Dreamer's soft voice, and watching the
slender fingers which nervously toyed with a Sévres cup.