The Dark Star

“Why?”

“I – am sorry for you.”

He said nothing.

“And – I like you, Mr. Neeland.”

The avowal in the soft, prettily modulated voice, lost none of its charm and surprise because the voice was a trifle tremulous, and the girl’s face was tinted with a delicate colour.

“I like to believe what you say, Scheherazade,” he said pleasantly. “Somehow or other I never did think you hated me personally – except once–”

She flushed, and he was silent, remembering her humiliation in the Brookhollow house.

“I don’t know,” she said in a colder tone, “why I should feel at all friendly toward you, Mr. Neeland, except that you are personally courageous, and you have shown yourself generous under a severe temptation to be otherwise.

“As for – any personal humiliation – inflicted upon me–” She looked down thoughtfully and pretended to sort out a bonbon to her taste, while the hot colour cooled in her cheeks.

“I know,” he said, “I’ve also jeered at you, jested, nagged you, taunted you, kiss–” He checked himself and he smiled and ostentatiously lighted a cigarette.

“Well,” he said, blowing a cloud of aromatic smoke toward the ceiling, “I believe that this is as strange a week as any man ever lived. It’s like a story book – like one of your wonderful stories, Scheherazade. It doesn’t seem real, now that it is ended–”

“It is not ended,” she interrupted in a low voice.

He smiled.

“You know,” he said, “there’s no use trying to frighten such an idiot as I am.”

She lifted her troubled eyes:

“That is what frightens me,” she said. “I am afraid you don’t know enough to be afraid.”

He laughed.

“But I want you to be afraid. A really brave man knows what fear is. I want you to know.”

“What do you wish me to do, Scheherazade?”

“Keep away from that box.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Yes, you can. You can leave it in charge of the captain of this ship and let him see that an attempt is made to deliver it to the Princess Mistchenka.”

She was in deadly earnest; he saw that. And, in spite of himself, a slight thrill that was almost a chill passed over him, checked instantly by the hot wave of sheer exhilaration at the hint of actual danger.

“Oho!” he said gaily. “Then you and your friends are not yet finished with me?”

“Yes, if you will consider your mission accomplished.”

“And leave the rest to the captain of the Volhynia?”

“Yes.”

“Scheherazade,” he said, “did you suppose me to be a coward?”

“No. You have done all that you can. A reserve officer of the British Navy has the box in his charge. Let him, protected by his Government, send it toward its destination.”

In her even voice the implied menace was the more sinister for her calmness.

He looked at her, perplexed, and shook his head.

“I ask you,” she went on, “to keep out of this affair – to disassociate yourself from it. I ask it because you have been considerate and brave, and because I do not wish you harm.”

He turned toward her, leaning a little forward on the lounge:

“No use,” he said, smiling. “I’m in it until it ends–”

“Let it end then!” said a soft, thick voice directly behind him. And Neeland turned and found the man he had seen on deck standing beside him. One of his fat white hands held an automatic pistol, covering him; the other was carefully closing the door which he had noiselessly opened to admit him.

“Karl!” exclaimed Ilse Dumont.

“It is safaire that you do not stir, either, to interfere,” he said, squinting for a second at her out of his eyes set too near together.

“Karl!” she cried. “I asked him to come in order to persuade him! I gave him my word of honour!”

“Did you do so? Then all the bettaire. I think we shall persuade him. Do not venture to move, young man; I shoot veree willingly.”

And Neeland, looking at him along the blunt barrel of the automatic pistol, was inclined to believe him.

His sensations were not agreeable; he managed to maintain a calm exterior; choke back the hot chagrin that reddened his face to the temples; and cast a half humorous, half contemptuous glance at Ilse Dumont.

“You prove true, don’t you?” he said coolly. “ – True to your trade of story-telling, Scheherazade!”

“I knew – nothing – of this!” she stammered.

But Neeland only laughed disagreeably.

Then the door opened again softly, and Golden Beard came in without his crutches.

CHAPTER XXI

METHOD AND FORESIGHT

Without a word – with merely a careless glance at Neeland, who remained seated under the level threat of Ali Baba’s pistol, the big, handsome German removed his overcoat. Under it was another coat. He threw this off in a brisk, businesslike manner, unbuckled a brace of pistols, laid them aside, unwound from his body a long silk rope ladder which dropped to the floor at Ilse Dumont’s feet.

The girl had turned very pale. She stooped, picked up the silk ladder, and, holding it in both hands, looked hard at Golden Beard.

“Johann,” she said, “I gave my word of honour to this young man that if he came here no harm would happen to him.”