There were several things to harrow Benton's thoughts aside from the
ingenious tortures of memory. Blanco should have arrived at Monte Carlo
on the day of their separation. Benton himself had proceeded slowly to
Puntal and had now been an isolated guest at the Grand Palace Hotel for
two days, yet he had heard nothing from Manuel. Still the man from Cadiz
had not been idly cruising. The Isis had duly dropped her anchor in
the ultramarine waters where the rock of Monaco juts out like a
beckoning finger, and Monte Carlo spreads the marble display of its
rococo façades at the feet of the Maritime Alps.
That night, in the most detailed perfection of evening dress, he
wandered good-humoredly, yet aloof, through the crowds. He haunted the
groups that swarmed about the busy wheels in the casino. He mingled with
the diners upon the terraces of the principal hotels. He brushed elbows
with the strollers along the promenade and about the Cercle des
Etrangers, and all the while his studiously alert eyes wandered with
seeming vacancy of expression over the faces of the men and women whom
he passed.
Safe in the surety of being himself unknown, he trained his countenance
into the ennui of one who has no object beyond killing the hour and
contributing his quota to the income of the syndicate.
The evening was wasted, together with a few louis, and the next
morning found the Spaniard scrutinizing every face along the Promenade
des Anglais at Nice. Then he searched Cannes and Mentone, but by
evening he was back again in the sacred City of Black and Red.
As he disembarked from the yacht's launch and came up the white stairs
to the landing-stage, his eyes were still indolently wandering, but
before he reached the level of the Boulevard de la Condamine, the
expression changed with the suddenness of discovery into a glint almost
triumphant. It was only with strong effort that he banished the
satisfied light from his pupils and forced them to wander absently
again, along the glitter and color of the palm-lined promenade.
For Manuel had seen a slender, well-groomed figure leaning on the coping
of the sea-wall and gazing out with obvious amusement on the life of the
harbor. Although the Spaniard did not allow himself a second glance, he
knew that his search was ended. The attention of the man above was
dreamily fixed on the bay where a dozen darting motor-boats cut swift
courses hither and thither. His attitude was graceful. His bearing might
have been almost noble except for a deplorable lack of frankness which
spoiled otherwise fine eyes, and a self-indulgent weakness which marred
the angle of the chin.