The Dark Star

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

“Oh, Lord! Have you even found out that? I don’t know whether I’m much flattered by this surveillance you and your friends maintain over 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, mentioning accurately every detail of his dinner, he lost his gaiety of countenance a little.

“Oh, I say, you know,” he protested, “that’s going it a trifle too strong. Now, why the devil should your people keep tabs on me to that extent?”

She looked up directly into his eyes:

“Mr. Neeland, I want to tell you why. I asked you here so that I may tell you. The people associated with me are absolutely pledged that neither the French nor the British Government shall have access to the contents of your box. That is why nothing that you do escapes our scrutiny. We are determined to have the papers in that box, and we shall have them.”

“You have come to that determination too late,” he began; but she stopped 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 you enough of the truth to make you reflect very seriously.

“This is no ordinary private matter, no vulgar attempt at robbery and crime 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, the chancelleries, the rulers themselves of nations long since grouped into two formidable alliances radically hostile to one another.

“I don’t think you have understood – perhaps even yet you do not understand why the papers you carry are so important to certain governments – why it is impossible that you be permitted to deliver them 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 that she is handsome, attractive, cultivated, amusing, and apparently wealthy.

“You know her as a traveller, a patroness of music and the fine arts – as a devotee of literature, as a graceful hostess, and an amiable friend who gives promising young artists letters of introduction to publishers who are in a position to offer them employment.”

That this girl should know so much about the Princess Mistchenka and about his own relations with her amazed Neeland. He did not pretend to account for it; he did not try; he sat silent, serious, and surprised, looking into the pretty and almost smiling face of a girl who apparently had been responsible for three separate attempts to kill him – perhaps even a fourth attempt; and who now sat beside him talking in a soft and agreeable voice about matters concerning which he had never dreamed she had heard.

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

“Ask me whatever questions you desire to ask, Mr. Neeland. I shall do my best to answer them.”

“Very well,” he said bluntly; “how do you happen to know so much about me?”

“I know something about the friends of the Princess Mistchenka. I have to.”

“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 the olive-wood box?”

“I had advices by cable from abroad – directions to go to Brookhollow and 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 protégée, Miss Carew–”

“What!!!”

The girl smiled wearily:

“Really,” she said, “you are such a boy to be mixed in with matters of this colour. I think that’s the reason you have defeated us – the trained fencer dreads a left-handed novice more than any classic master of the foils.

“And that is what you have done to us – blundered – if you’ll forgive me – into momentary victory.

“But such victories are only momentary, Mr. Neeland. Please believe it. Please try to understand, too, that this is no battle with masks and plastrons and nicely padded buttons. No; it is no comedy, but a grave and serious affair that must inevitably end in tragedy – for somebody.”

“For me?” he asked without smiling.

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

“I asked you to come here,” she said, “because – because I want you to escape the tragedy.”

“You want me to escape?”

“Yes.”