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 shaven away.  Evidently the gentleman wished to present a changed 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 the most beautiful little vessels I have ever seen.”

“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 pleasant acquaintances.

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 cafe table at the Nouvel Hotel de Paris; listening to Louis, the Dreamer’s soft voice, and watching the slender fingers which nervously toyed with a Sevres cup.

“She is extremely beautiful in her lines,” Louis was declaring.  “I am fond of yachts that are properly built.  I am planning one myself, and each new vessel holds for me a fresh interest.”

“Ah, indeed!” The Spaniard was delighted.  “Then we have fallen upon a common enthusiasm.  I am never so happy as when talking to a keen yachtsman.”  Yet so long as the conversation threatened those nautical technicalities in which he was utterly deficient, he managed to let the other do the talking.

Manuel at last set down his cup and, looking up with a flash, as of sudden inspiration, suggested:  “But doubtless you will be stopping in Monte Carlo a day or two?  Possibly you will do me the honor of inspecting the boat?”