The Dark Star

There ensued a brief silence; the Princess glanced at Neeland, then her dark eyes returned directly to the young girl before her, and she held out her hand, smilingly:

“Miss Carew – I believe I know exactly what your voice is going to be like. I think I have heard, in America, such a voice once or twice. Speak to me and prove me right.”

Rue flushed:

“What am I to say?” she asked naïvely.

“I knew I was right,” exclaimed the Princess Mistchenka gaily. “Come into my stateroom and let each one of us discover how agreeable is the other. Shall we – my dear child?”

When Neeland returned from a visit to the purser with a pocket full of British and French gold and silver for Ruhannah, he knocked at the stateroom door of the Princess Mistchenka.

That lively personage opened it, came out into the corridor holding the door partly closed behind her.

“She’s almost dead with fatigue and grief. I undressed her myself. She’s in my bed. She has been crying.”

“Poor little thing,” said Neeland.

“Yes.”

“Here’s her money,” he said, a little awkwardly.

The Princess opened her wrist bag and he dumped in the shining torrent.

“Shall I – call good-bye to her?” he asked.

“You may go in, James.”

They entered together; and he was startled to see how young she seemed there on the pillows – how pitifully immature the childish throat, the tear-flushed face lying in its mass of chestnut hair.

“Good-bye, Rue,” he said, still awkward, offering his hand.

Slowly she held out one slim hand from the covers.

“Good voyage, good luck,” he said. “I wish you would write a line to me.”

“I will.”

“Then–” He smiled; released her hand.

“Thank you for – for all you have done,” she said. “I shall not forget.”

Something choked him slightly; he forced a laugh:

“Come back a famous painter, Rue. Keep your head clear and your heart full of courage. And let me know how you’re getting on, won’t you?”

“Yes… Good-bye.”

So he went out, and at the door exchanged adieux with the smiling Princess.

“Do you – like her a little?” he whispered.

“I do, my friend. Also – I like you. I am old enough to say it safely, am I not?”

“If you think so,” he said, a funny little laugh in his eyes, “you are old enough to let me kiss you good-bye.”

But she backed away, still smiling:

“On the brow – the hair – yes; if you promise discretion, James.”

“What has tottering age like yours to do with discretion, Princess Naïa?” he retorted impudently. “A kiss on the mouth must of itself be discreet when bestowed on youth by such venerable years as are yours.”

But the Princess, the singularly provocative smile still edging her lips, merely looked at him out of dark and slightly humorous eyes, gave him her hand, withdrew it with decision, and entered her stateroom, closing the door rather sharply behind her.

When Neeland got back to the studio he took a couple of hours’ sleep, and, being young, perfectly healthy, and perhaps not unaccustomed to the habits of the owl family, felt pretty well when he went out to breakfast.

Over his coffee cup he propped up his newspaper against a carafe; and the heading on one of the columns immediately attracted his attention.

ROW BETWEEN SPORTING MEN

EDDIE BRANDES, FIGHT PROMOTER AND

THEATRICAL MAN, MIXES IT WITH

MAXY VENEM

A WOMAN SAID TO BE THE CAUSE: AFFRAY DRAWS

A BIG CROWD IN FRONT OF THE HOTEL

KNICKERBOCKER

BOTH MEN, BADLY BATTERED, GET AWAY BEFORE THE

POLICE ARRIVE

Breakfasting leisurely, he read the partly humorous, partly contemptuous account of the sordid affair. Afterward he sent for all the morning papers. But in none of them was Ruhannah Carew mentioned at all, nobody, apparently, having noticed her in the exciting affair between Venem, Brandes, the latter’s wife, and the chauffeur.

Nor did the evening papers add anything material to the account, except to say that Brandes had been interviewed in his office at the Silhouette Theatre and that he stated that he had not engaged in any personal encounter with anybody, had not seen Max Venem in months, had not been near the Hotel Knickerbocker, and knew nothing about the affair in question.

He also permitted a dark hint or two to escape him concerning possible suits for defamation of character against irresponsible newspapers.

The accounts in the various evening editions agreed, however, that when interviewed, Mr. Brandes was nursing a black eye and a badly swollen lip, which, according to him, he had acquired in a playful sparring encounter with his business manager, Mr. Benjamin Stull.

And that was all; the big town had neither time nor inclination to notice either Brandes or Venem any further; Broadway completed the story for its own edification, and, by degrees, arrived at its own conclusions. Only nobody could discover who was the young girl concerned, or where she came from or what might be her name. And, after a few days, Broadway, also, forgot the matter amid the tarnished tinsel and raucous noises of its own mean and multifarious preoccupations.

CHAPTER XIII

LETTERS FROM A LITTLE GIRL