The Dark Star

“Scheherazade,” he said, “you’ll be a good little girl, now, won’t you? Because it would be a shocking thing for you and your friend across the way to land in England wearing funny bangles on your wrists and keeping step with each other, wouldn’t it?”

She continued to hold the slip of paper and stare at it long after she had finished reading it and the words became a series of parallel blurs.

“Scheherazade,” he said lightly, “what on earth am I going to do with you?”

“I suppose you will lodge a charge with the captain against me,” she replied in even tones.

“Why not? You deserve it, don’t you? You and your humorous friend with the yellow beard?”

She looked at him with a vague smile.

“What can you prove?” said she.

“Perfectly true, dear child. Nothing. I don’t want to prove anything, either.”

She smiled incredulously.

“It’s quite true, Scheherazade. Otherwise, I shouldn’t have ordered my steward to throw the remains of my dinner out of the corridor porthole. No, dear child. I should have had it analysed, had your stateroom searched for more of that elusive seasoning you used to flavour my dinner; had a further search made for a certain sort of handkerchief and perfume. Also, just imagine the delightful evidence which a thorough search of your papers might reveal!” He laughed. “No, Scheherazade; I did not care to prove you anything resembling a menace to society. Because, in the first place, I am absurdly grateful to you.”

Her face became expressionless under the slow flush mounting.

“I’m not teasing you,” he insisted. “What I say is true. I’m grateful to you for violently injecting romance into my perfectly commonplace existence. You have taken the book of my life and not only extra illustrated it with vivid and chromatic pictures, but you have unbound it, sewed into its prosaic pages several chapters ripped bodily from a penny-dreadful, and you have then rebound the whole thing and pasted your own pretty picture on the cover! Come, now! Ought not a man to be grateful to any philanthropic girl who so gratuitously obliges him?”

Her face burned under his ridicule; her clasped hands in her lap were twisted tight as though to maintain her self-control.

“What do you want of me?” she asked between lips that scarcely moved.

He laughed, sat up, stretched out both arms with a sigh of satisfaction. The colour came back to his face; he dropped one leg over the bed’s edge; and she stood erect and stepped aside for him to rise.

No dizziness remained; he tried both feet on the floor, straightened himself, cast a gaily malicious glance at her, and slowly rose to his feet.

“Scheherazade,” he said, “isn’t it funny? I ask you, did you ever hear of a would-be murderess and her escaped victim being on such cordial terms? Did you?”

He was going through a few calisthenics, gingerly but with increasing abandon, while he spoke.

“I feel fine, thank you. I am enjoying the situation extremely, too. It’s a delightful paradox, this situation. It’s absurd, it’s enchanting, it’s incredible! There is only one more thing that could make it perfectly impossible. And I’m going to do it!” And he deliberately encircled her waist and kissed her.

She turned white at that, and, as he released her, laughing, took a step or two blindly, toward the door; stood there with one hand against it as though supporting herself.

After a few moments, and very slowly, she turned and looked at him; and that young man was scared for the first time since their encounter in the locked house in Brookhollow.

Yet in her face there was no anger, no menace, nothing he had ever before seen in any woman’s face, nothing that he now comprehended. Only, for the moment, it seemed to him that something terrible was gazing at him out of this girl’s fixed eyes – something that he did not recognise as part of her – another being hidden within her, staring out through her eyes at him.

“For heaven’s sake, Scheherazade–” he faltered.

She opened the door, still watching him over her shoulder, shrank through it, and was gone.

He stood for a full five minutes as though stupefied, then walked to the door and flung it open. And met a ship’s officer face to face, already lifting his hand to knock for admittance.

“Mr. Neeland?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Captain West’s compliments, and he would be glad to see you in his cabin.”

“Thank you. My compliments and thanks to Captain West, and I shall call on him immediately.”

They exchanged bows; the officer turned, hesitated, glanced at the steward who stood by the port.

“Did you bring a radio message to Mr. Neeland?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, I received the message,” said Neeland.

“The captain requests you to bring the message with you.”

“With pleasure,” said Neeland.

So the officer went away down the corridor, and Neeland sat down on his bed, opened the box, went over carefully every item of its contents, relocked it with a grin of satisfaction, and, taking it with him, went off to pay a visit to the captain of the Volhynia.

The bearded gentleman in the stateroom across the passage had been listening intently to the conversation, with his ear flat against his keyhole.

And now, without hesitating, he went to a satchel which stood on the sofa in his stateroom, opened it, took from it a large bundle of papers and a ten-pound iron scale-weight.

Attaching the weight to the papers by means of a heavy strand of copper wire, he mounted the sofa and hurled the weighted package into the Atlantic Ocean.

“Pig-dogs of British,” he muttered in his golden beard, “you may go and dive for them when The Day dawns.”

Then he filled and lighted a handsome porcelain pipe, and puffed it with stolid satisfaction, leaving the pepper-box silver cover open.

“Der Tag,” he muttered in his golden beard; and his clear eyes swept the starlit ocean with the pensive and terrifying scrutiny of a waiting eagle.

CHAPTER XIX

THE CAPTAIN OF THE VOLHYNIA

The captain of the Volhynia had just come from the bridge and was taking a bite of late supper in his cabin when the orderly announced Neeland. He rose at once, offering a friendly hand:

“Mr. Neeland, I am very glad to see you. I know you by name and reputation already. There were some excellent pictures by you in the latest number of the Midweek Magazine.”

“I’m so glad you liked them, Captain West.”

“Yes, I did. There was a breeze in them – a gaiety. And such a fetching girl you drew for your heroine!”

“You think so! It’s rather interesting. I met a young girl once – she comes from up-state where I come from. There was a peculiar and rather subtle attraction about her face. So I altered the features of the study I was making from my model, and put in hers as I remembered them.”

“She must be beautiful, Mr. Neeland.”