“He told a long and complicated story of plans in which a King was to lose his life and throne.  He said that the secret cabinets of several of the major European governments were interested, and that just as carefully prepared plans were about to be consummated something happened—­something mysterious which none of the cleverest agents of the governments had been able to solve.  In some unfathomable way someone had discovered everything and stepped between and disarranged.  No upheaval followed and of course Browne never won his title.  They have never yet learned who saved that throne.  Someone is working magic and getting away with it under the eyes of Europe’s cleverest detectives.”

The boy stopped and looked about to see if his recital had aroused the proper wonderment.  Both men gave expression of deep interest.  Flattered by the impression he had made, Harcourt went on.  “Now you fellows are old travelers—­men of the world—­I am a kid compared to you.  Yet has either of you stumbled on such a story as that?  So you see wonderful things do sometimes happen under the surface of affairs with never a ripple at the top of the water.  Browne—­or Martin—­said that the Duke would reign yet—­oh, yes, he said the Powers would see to that!”

“Senor, what became of your friend?” inquired Blanco.

“Oh!” the boy hesitated for a moment, then broke into a laugh.  “I’m afraid that’s an anti-climax.  They found that he was simply a nervy stowaway.  He had not booked his passage and so—­”

“They put him off?”

“Yes, at Malta.  Meantime he was stripped to the waist and armed with a shovel in the stoke-hold.”

Benton laughed.

“There was another phase to it, though—­” began the boy afresh.

At that moment the whistle of the small excursion steamer below broke out in a shrill scream.  Young Harcourt hurriedly pushed back his chair and grabbed for his Panama hat.  “Caesar!” he cried, “there’s the whistle.  I shall miss my boat for the Grotto.”  And he hastened off with a shout of summons to a crazy victoria that was clattering by empty.

During a long silence Blanco studied the cone of Vesuvius.

“Blanco!” Benton leaned across the table with an anxious frown and stretched out a hand which over-turned the wine glasses.  “There was one thing he said that stuck in my memory.  He said the Powers would see that in the end Louis had his throne.”

The Spaniard shook his head dubiously.

“The Powers have lost their instrument!  You forget, Senor, that this is underground diplomacy.  It must appear to work itself out and the new King must be logical.  With Louis a prisoner their meddling hands are bound.”

Benton rose and pushed back his chair.  His companion joined him and together they passed out through the stone-flagged court and into the road.  For fifteen minutes they walked morosely and in silence through the steep streets where the shops are tourist-traps, alluringly baited with corals and trinkets.  Finally they came out on the beach where many fishing boats were dragged up on the sand, and nets stretched, drying in the sun.