The Spaniard took a handful of matches from a porcelain receptacle on the table. He laid one down.
"Let that match," he smilingly suggested, "stand for the circumstance of the Grand Duke leaving Paris for Cadiz which is—well, nearer to Puntal—and less observant than Paris." He laid another on the marble table-top with its sulphur head close to the first, so that the two radiated from a common center like spokes from a hub. "Regard that as a coincidence of the arrival of the Count Borttorff from the other direction, but at the same time, and at the precise season of the coronation and marriage of the King." He looked at the two matches, then successively laid down others, all with the heads at the common center. "That," he said, "is the joining of the group by the distinguished Frenchman—that the presence of the English Jackal—that is the chance that runs against any King or Queen of meeting death. That—" he struck another match and held it a moment burning in his fingers "—regard that, Señor, as the flaring up of ambitions that are thwarted by a life or two."
He touched the burning match to the grouped tips of sulphur and his teeth gleamed white as he contemplated the little spurt of hissing flame. Then he dropped his flattened hand upon the tiny eruption and extinguished it, as his sudden grin died away to a bored smile.
HIS TEETH GLEAMED WHITE AS HE CONTEMPLATED THE LITTLE SPURT OF HISSING FLAME.
"There, it is over," he yawned, "and of course it may not happen. Quien sabe?"
"And if they should flare up—" Benton spoke slowly, carefully, "others might suffer than the King?"
"How should one say? The King alone would suffice, but Kings are rarely found in solitude," reasoned the Andalusian. "For a brief moment Europe looks with eyes of interest on the feasting little capital. The King will not be alone. No, it must be—so one would surmise—at the coronation."
"Good God!" Benton gaspingly breathed the exclamation. "But, man, think of it—the women—the children—the utterly innocent people—the Queen!"