Mon smiled at the implied reproach.

"And I, too, have come from far--from Warsaw," said the stout man,
breathing hard, as if to illustrate the length of his journey. "Let us
hope that there is something tangible this time."

He spoke with the gaiety and lightness of a Frenchman; for this was that
Frenchman of the North, a Pole.

Mon lighted a cigarette, with a gay jerk of the match towards the last
speaker, indicative of his recognition of a jest.

"Something," continued the Pole, "more than great promises--something
more stable than a castle--in Spain. Ha, ha! You have not taken Pampeluna
yet, my friend. One does not hear that Bilboa has fallen into the hands
of the Carlists. Every time we meet you ask for money. You must arrange
to give us something--for our money, my friend."

"I will arrange," answered Mon in his quiet, neat enunciation, "to give
you a kingdom."

And he inclined his head forward to look at the Pole through the upper
half of his gold-rimmed glasses.

"And not a vague republic in the region of the North Pole," said the
stout man with a laugh. "Well, who lives shall see."

"You want more money--is that it?" inquired the little wizened man, who
seemed to be the leader though he spoke the least--a not unusual