The Dark Star

by Robert W. Chambers

  CHAPTER XX

  THE DROP OF IRISH

  The usual signs of land greeted Neeland when he rose early nextmorning and went out on deck for the first time without his olive-woodbox--first a few gulls, then puffins, terns, and other sea fowl inincreasing numbers, weed floating, fishing smacks, trawlers tossing onthe rougher coast waters.

  After breakfast he noticed two British torpedo boat destroyers, one tostarboard, the other on the port bow, apparently keeping pace with the_Volhynia_. They were still there at noon, subjects of speculationamong the passengers; and at tea-time their number was increased tofive, the three new destroyers appearing suddenly out of nowhere, deadahead, dashing forward through a lively sea under a swirling vortex ofgulls.

  The curiosity of the passengers, always easily aroused, became morethoroughly stirred up by the bulletins posted late that afternoon,indicating that the tension between the several European chancellerieswas becoming acute, and that emperors and kings were exchangingpersonal telegrams.

  There was all sorts of talk on deck and at the dinner table, wildtalk, speculative talk, imaginative discussions, logical andillogical. But, boiled down to its basic ingredients, the wildestimagination on board the _Volhynia_ admitted war to be animpossibility of modern times, and that, ultimately, diplomacy wouldsettle what certainly appeared to be the ugliest internationalsituation in a hundred years.

  At the bottom of his heart Neeland believed this, too; wished for itwhen his higher and more educated spiritual self was flatlyinterrogated; and yet, in the everyday, impulsive ego of JamesNeeland, the drop of Irish had begun to sing and seethe with theatavistic instinct for a row.

  War? He didn't know what it meant, of course. It made good poetry andinteresting fiction; it rendered history amusing; made dry factssucculent.

  Preparations for war in Europe, which had been going on for fiftyyears, were most valuable, too, in contributing the brilliant hues ofuniforms to an otherwise sombre civilian world, and investingcommonplace and sober cities with the omnipresent looming mystery offortifications.

  To a painter, war seemed to be a dramatic and gorgeous affair; to ayoung man it appealed as all excitement appeals. The sportsman in himdesired to witness a scrap; his artist's imagination was aroused; thegambler in him speculated as to the outcome of such a war. And theseething, surging drop of Irish fizzed and purred and coaxed for achance to edge sideways into any fight which God in His mercy mightprovide for a decent gossoon who had never yet had the pleasure of abroken head.

  "Not," thought Neeland to himself, "that I'll go trailing my coattails. I'll go about my own business, of course--but somebody may hitme a crack at that!"

  He thought of Ilse Dumont and of the man with the golden beard,realising that he had had a wonderful time, after all; sorry in hisheart that it was all over and that the _Volhynia_ was due to let goher mudhooks in the Mersey about three o'clock the next morning.

  As he leaned on the deck rail in the soft July darkness, he could seethe lights of the destroyers to port and starboard, see strings ofjewel-like signals flash, twinkle, fade, and flash again.

  All around him along the deck passengers were promenading, girls inevening gowns or in summer white; men in evening dress or reefed inblue as nautically as possible; old ladies toddling, swathed in veils,old gentlemen in dinner coats and sporting headgear--every weird orconventional combination infested the decks of the _Volhynia_.

  Now, for the first time during the voyage, Neeland felt free to loungeabout where he listed, saunter wherever the whim of the momentdirected his casual steps. The safety of the olive-wood box was nolonger on his mind, the handle no longer in his physical clutch. Hewas at liberty to stroll as carelessly as any boulevard _flaneur_; andhe did so, scanning the passing throng for a glimpse of Ilse Dumont orof the golden-bearded one, but not seeing either of them.

  In fact, he had not laid eyes on them since he had supped not wiselybut too well on the soup that Scheherazade had flavoured for him.

  The stateroom door of the golden-bearded man had remained closed. Hisown little cockney steward, who also looked out for Golden Beard,reported that gentleman as requiring five meals a day, with beer inproportion, and the porcelain pipe steaming like AEtna all day long.

  His little West Indian stewardess also reported the gossip from herfriend on another corridor, which was, in effect, that Miss White, thetrained nurse, took all meals in her room and had not been observedto leave that somewhat monotonous sanctuary.

  How many more of the band there might be Neeland did not know. Heremembered vaguely, while lying rigid under the grip of the drug, thathe had heard Ilse Dumont's voice mention somebody called Karl. And hehad an idea that this Karl might easily be the big, ham-fisted Germanwho had tried so earnestly to stifle him and throw him from thevestibule of the midnight express.

  However, it did not matter now. The box was safe in the captain'scare; the _Volhynia_ would be lying at anchor off Liverpool beforedaylight; the whole exciting and romantic business was ended.

  With an unconscious sigh, not entirely of relief, Neeland opened hiscigarette case, found it empty, turned and went slowly below with theidea of refilling it.

  They were dancing somewhere on deck; the music of the ship's orchestracame to his ears. He paused a moment on the next deck to lean on therail in the darkness and listen.

  Far beneath him, through a sea as black as onyx, swept the reflectionsof the lighted ports; and he could hear the faint hiss of foam fromthe curling flow below.

  As he turned to resume his quest for cigarettes, he was startled tosee directly in front of him the heavy figure of a man--so close tohim, in fact, that Neeland instinctively threw up his arm, elbow out,to avoid contact.

  But the man, halting, merely lifted his hat, saying that in the dimlight he had mistaken Neeland for a friend; and they passed each otheron the almost deserted deck, saluting formally in the Europeanfashion, with lifted hats.

  His spirits a trifle subdued, but still tingling with the shock ofdiscovering a stranger so close behind him where he had stood leaningover the ship's rail, Neeland continued on his way below.

  Probably the big man had made a mistake in good faith; but the mancertainly had approached very silently; was almost at his very elbowwhen discovered. And Neeland remembered the light-shot depths overwhich, at that moment, he had been leaning; and he realised that itwould have been very easy for a man as big as that to have flung himoverboard before he had wit to realise what had been done to him.

  Neither could he forget the curious gleam in the stranger's eyes whena ray from a deck light fell across his shadowy face--unusually smalleyes set a little too close together to inspire confidence. Nor hadthe man's slight accent escaped him--not a Teutonic accent, hethought, but something fuller and softer--something that originatedeast of Scutari, suggesting the Eurasian, perhaps.

  But Neeland's soberness was of volatile quality; before he arrived athis stateroom he had recovered his gaiety of spirit. He glancedironically at the closed door of Golden Beard as he fitted his keyinto his own door.

  "A lively lot," he thought to himself, "what with Scheherazade, GoldenBeard, and now Ali Baba--by jinx!--he certainly did have an Orientalvoice!--and he looked the part, too, with a beak for a nose and ablack moustache a la Enver Pasha!"

  Much diverted by his own waxing imagination, he turned on the lightin his stateroom, filled the cigarette case, turned to go out, and sawon the carpet just inside his door a bit of white paper foldedcocked-hat fashion and addressed to him.

  Picking it up and unfolding it, he read:

  * * * * *

  May I see you this evening at eleven? My stateroom is 623. If there isanybody in the corridor, knock; if not, come in without knocking.

  I mean no harm to you. I give my word of honour. Please accept it foras much as your personal courage makes it worth to you--its facevalue, or nothing.

  Knowing you, I may say without flattery that I expect you. If I amdis
appointed, I still must bear witness to your courage and to agenerosity not characteristic of your sex.

  You have had both power and provocation to make my voyage on this shipembarrassing. You have not done so. And self-restraint in a man is avery deadly weapon to use on a woman.

  I hope you will come. I desire to be generous on my part. Ask yourselfwhether you are able to believe this. You don't know women, Mr.Neeland. Your conclusion probably will be a wrong one.

  But I think you'll come, all the same. And you will be right incoming, whatever you believe.

  Ilse Dumont.

  * * * * *

  It was a foregone conclusion that he would go. He knew it before hehad read half the note. And when he finished it he was certain.

  Amused, his curiosity excited, grateful that the adventure had not yetentirely ended, he lighted a cigarette and looked impatiently at hiswatch.

  It lacked half an hour of the appointed time and his exhilaration wassteadily increasing.

  He stuck the note into the frame of his mirror over the washstand witha vague idea that if anything happened to him this would furnish aclue to his whereabouts.

  Then he thought of the steward, but, although he had no reason tobelieve the girl who had written him, something within him made himashamed to notify the steward as to where he was going. He ought tohave done it; common prudence born of experience with Ilse Dumontsuggested it. And yet he could not bring himself to do it; and exactlywhy, he did not understand.

  One thing, however, he could do; and he did. He wrote a note toCaptain West giving the Paris address of the Princess Mistchenka, andasked that the olive-wood box be delivered to her in case any accidentbefell him. This note he dropped into the mailbox at the end of themain corridor as he went out. A few minutes later he stood in an emptypassageway outside a door numbered 623. He had a loaded automatic inhis breast pocket, a cigarette between his fingers, and, on hisagreeable features, a smile of anticipation--a smile in whichamusement, incredulity, reckless humour, and a spice of malice wereblended--the smile born of the drop of Irish sparkling like champagnein his singing veins.

  And he turned the knob of door No. 623 and went in.

  She was reading, curled up on her sofa under the electric bulb, acigarette in one hand, a box of bonbons beside her.

  She looked up leisurely as he entered, gave him a friendly nod, and,when he held out his hand, placed her own in it. With delightedgravity he bent and saluted her finger tips with lips that twitched tocontrol a smile.

  "Will you be seated, please?" she said gently.

  The softness of her agreeable voice struck him as he looked aroundfor a seat, then directly at her; and saw that she meant him to find aseat on the lounge beside her.

  "Now, indeed you are Scheherazade of the Thousand and One Nights," hesaid gaily, "with your cigarette and your bonbons, and cross-legged onyour divan----"

  "Did Scheherazade smoke cigarettes, Mr. Neeland?"

  "No," he admitted; "that is an anachronism, I suppose. Tell me, howare you, dear lady?"

  "Thank you, quite well."

  "And--busy?" His lips struggled again to maintain their gravity.

  "Yes, I have been busy."

  "Cooking something up?--I mean soup, of course," he added.

  She forced a smile, but reddened as though it were difficult for herto accustom herself to his half jesting sarcasms.

  "So you've been busy," he resumed tormentingly, "but not with cookinglessons! Perhaps you've been practising with your pretty littlepistol. You know you really need a bit of small arms practice,Scheherazade."

  "Because I once missed you?" she inquired serenely.

  "Why so you did, didn't you?" he exclaimed, delighted to goad her intoreplying.

  "Yes," she said, "I missed you. I needn't have. I am really a deadshot, Mr. Neeland."

  "Oh, Scheherazade!" he protested.

  She shrugged:

  "I am not bragging; I could have killed you. I supposed it wasnecessary only to frighten you. It was my mistake and a bad one."

  "My dear child," he expostulated, "you meant murder and you know it.Do you suppose I believe that you know how to shoot?"

  "But I do, Mr. Neeland," she returned with good-humoured indifference."My father was head _jaeger_ to Count Geier von Sturmspitz, and I wasalready a dead shot with a rifle when we emigrated to Canada. And whenhe became an Athabasca trader, and I was only twelve years old, Icould set a moose-hide shoe-lace swinging and cut it in two with arevolver at thirty yards. And I can drive a shingle nail at thatdistance and drive the bullet that drove it, and the next and thenext, until my revolver is empty. You don't believe me, do you?"

  "You know that the beautiful Scheherazade----"

  "Was famous for her fantastic stories? Yes, I know that, Mr. Neeland.I'm sorry you don't believe I fired only to frighten you."

  "I'm sorry I don't," he admitted, laughing, "but I'll practise trying,and maybe I shall attain perfect credulity some day. Tell me," headded, "what _have_ you been doing to amuse yourself?"

  "I've been amusing myself by wondering whether you would come here tosee me tonight."

  "But your note said you were sure I'd come."

  "You _have_ come, haven't you?"

  "Yes, Scheherazade, I'm here at your bidding, spirit and flesh. But Iforgot to bring one thing."

  "What?"

  "The box which--you have promised yourself."

  "Yes, the captain has it, I believe," she returned serenely.

  "Oh, Lord! Have you even found out _that_? I don't know whether I'mmuch flattered by this surveillance you and your friends maintainover me. I suppose you even know what I had for dinner. Do you?"

  "Yes."

  "Come, I'll call that bluff, dear lady! What did I have?"

  When she told him, carelessly, and without humour, mentioningaccurately every detail of his dinner, he lost his gaiety ofcountenance a little.

  "Oh, I say, you know," he protested, "that's going it a trifle toostrong. Now, why the devil should your people keep tabs on me to thatextent?"

  She looked up directly into his eyes:

  "Mr. Neeland, I want to tell you why. I asked you here so that I maytell you. The people associated with me are absolutely pledged thatneither the French nor the British Government shall have access to thecontents of your box. That is why nothing that you do escapes ourscrutiny. We are determined to have the papers in that box, and weshall have them."

  "You have come to that determination too late," he began; but shestopped him with a slight gesture of protest:

  "Please don't interrupt me, Mr. Neeland."

  "I won't; go on, dear lady!"

  "Then, I'm trying to tell you all I may. I am trying to tell youenough of the truth to make you reflect very seriously.

  "This is no ordinary private matter, no vulgar attempt at robbery andcrime as you think--or pretend to think--for you are very intelligent,Mr. Neeland, and you know that the contrary is true.

  "This affair concerns the secret police, the embassies, thechancelleries, the rulers themselves of nations long since groupedinto two formidable alliances radically hostile to one another.

  "I don't think you have understood--perhaps even yet you do notunderstand why the papers you carry are so important to certaingovernments--why it is impossible that you be permitted to deliverthem to the Princess Mistchenka----"

  "Where did _you_ ever hear of _her_!" he demanded in astonishment.

  The girl smiled:

  "Dear Mr. Neeland, I know the Princess Mistchenka better, perhaps,than you do."

  "Do you?"

  "Indeed I do. What do you know about her? Nothing at all except thatshe is handsome, attractive, cultivated, amusing, and apparentlywealthy.

  "You know her as a traveller, a patroness of music and the finearts--as a devotee of literature, as a graceful hostess, and anamiable friend who gives promising young artists letters ofintr
oduction to publishers who are in a position to offer thememployment."

  That this girl should know so much about the Princess Mistchenka andabout his own relations with her amazed Neeland. He did not pretend toaccount for it; he did not try; he sat silent, serious, and surprised,looking into the pretty and almost smiling face of a girl whoapparently had been responsible for three separate attempts to killhim--perhaps even a fourth attempt; and who now sat beside him talkingin a soft and agreeable voice about matters concerning which he hadnever dreamed she had heard.

  For a few moments she sat silent, observing in his changing expressionthe effects of what she had said to him. Then, with a smile:

  "Ask me whatever questions you desire to ask, Mr. Neeland. I shall domy best to answer them."

  "Very well," he said bluntly; "how do you happen to know so much aboutme?"

  "I know something about the friends of the Princess Mistchenka. I haveto."

  "Did you know who I was there in the house at Brookhollow?"

  "No."

  "When, then?"

  "When you yourself told me your name, I recognised it."

  "I surprised you by interrupting you in Brookhollow?"

  "Yes."

  "You expected no interruption?"

  "None."

  "How did you happen to go there? Where did you ever hear of theolive-wood box?"

  "I had advices by cable from abroad--directions to go to Brookhollowand secure the box."

  "Then somebody must be watching the Princess Mistchenka."

  "Of course," she said simply.

  "Why 'of course'?"

  "Mr. Neeland, the Princess Mistchenka and her youthful _protegee_,Miss Carew----"

  "_What!!!_"

  The girl smiled wearily:

  "Really," she said, "you are such a boy to be mixed in with matters ofthis colour. I think that's the reason you have defeated us--thetrained fencer dreads a left-handed novice more than any classicmaster of the foils.

  "And that is what you have done to us--blundered--if you'll forgiveme--into momentary victory.

  "But such victories are only momentary, Mr. Neeland. Please believeit. Please try to understand, too, that this is no battle with masksand plastrons and nicely padded buttons. No; it is no comedy, but agrave and serious affair that must inevitably end in tragedy--forsomebody."

  "For me?" he asked without smiling.

  She turned on him abruptly and laid one hand lightly on his arm with apretty gesture, at once warning, appealing, and protective.

  "I asked you to come here," she said, "because--because I want you toescape the tragedy."

  "You want _me_ to escape?"

  "Yes."

  "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 itscharm and surprise because the voice was a trifle tremulous, and thegirl'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--exceptonce----"

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

  "I don't know," she said in a colder tone, "why I should feel at allfriendly toward you, Mr. Neeland, except that you are personallycourageous, and you have shown yourself generous under a severetemptation to be otherwise.

  "As for--any personal humiliation--inflicted upon me----" She lookeddown 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 andostentatiously 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'slike 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 idiotas I am."

  She lifted her troubled eyes:

  "That is what frightens _me_," she said. "I am afraid you don't knowenough to be afraid."

  He laughed.

  "But I want you to be afraid. A really brave man knows what fear is. Iwant _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 shipand let him see that an attempt is made to deliver it to the PrincessMistchenka."

  She was in deadly earnest; he saw that. And, in spite of himself, aslight thrill that was almost a chill passed over him, checkedinstantly by the hot wave of sheer exhilaration at the hint of actualdanger.

  "Oho!" he said gaily. "Then you and your friends are not yet finishedwith 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 BritishNavy 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 hercalmness.

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

  "I ask you," she went on, "to keep out of this affair--to disassociateyourself from it. I ask it because you have been considerate andbrave, 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. AndNeeland turned and found the man he had seen on deck standing besidehim. One of his fat white hands held an automatic pistol, coveringhim; the other was carefully closing the door which he had noiselesslyopened 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! Igave 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 automaticpistol, was inclined to believe him.

  His sensations were not agreeable; he managed to maintain a calmexterior; choke back the hot chagrin that reddened his face to thetemples; and cast a half humorous, half contemptuous glance at IlseDumont.

  "You prove true, don't you?" he said coolly. "--True to your trade ofstory-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 withouthis crutches.