193CHAPTER XVIIA WHITE SKIRT
It was in mid-ocean that Neeland finally came to the conclusion that nobody on board theVolhyniawas likely to bother him or his box.
The July weather had been magnificent—blue skies, a gentle wind, and a sea scarcely silvered by a comber.
Assorted denizens of the Atlantic took part in the traditional vaudeville performance for the benefit of theVolhyniapassengers; gulls followed the wake to mid-ocean; Mother Carey’s chickens skimmed the baby billows; dolphins turned watery flip-flaps under the bows; and even a distant whale consented to oblige.
Everybody pervaded the decks morning, noon, and evening; the most squeamish recovered confidence in twenty-four hours; and every constitutional lubber concluded he was a born sailor.
Neeland really was one; no nausea born from the bad adjustment of that anatomical auricular gyroscope recently discovered in man ever disturbed his abdominal nerves. Short of shipwreck, he enjoyed any entertainment the Atlantic offered him.
So he was always on deck, tranquilly happy and with nothing in the world to disturb him except his responsibility for the olive-wood box.
He dared not leave it in his locked cabin; he dared not entrust it to anybody; he lugged it about with him wherever he went. On deck it stood beside his steamer chair; it dangled from his hand when he promenaded,194exciting the amazement and curiosity of others; it reposed on the floor under the table and beneath his attentive feet when he was at meals.
These elaborate precautions indicated his wholesome respect for the persistence of Scheherazade and her friends; he was forever scanning his fellow-voyagers at table, in the smoking room, and as they strolled to and fro in front of his steamer chair, trying to make up his mind concerning them.
But Neeland, a clever observer of externals, was no reader of character. The passenger list never seemed to confirm any conclusions he arrived at concerning any of the passengers on theVolhynia. A gentleman he mistook for an overfed broker turned out to be a popular clergyman with outdoor proclivities; a slim, poetic-looking youth who carried a copy of “Words and Wind” about the deck travelled for the Gold Leaf Lard Company.
Taking them all in all, Neeland concluded that they were as harmless a collection ofreconcentradosas he had ever observed; and he was strongly tempted to leave the box in his locked stateroom.
He decided to do so one afternoon after luncheon, and, lugging his box, started to return to his stateroom with that intention, instead of going on deck, as usual, for a postprandial cigarette.
There was nobody in the main corridor as he passed, but in the short, carpeted passage leading to his stateroom he caught a glimpse of a white serge skirt vanishing into the stateroom opposite to his, and heard the door close and the noise of a key turned quickly.
His steward, being questioned on the first day out, had told him that this stateroom was occupied by an invalid gentleman travelling alone, who preferred to195remain there instead of trusting to his crutches on a temperamental deck.
Neeland, passing the closed and curtained door, wondered whether the invalid had made a hit, or whether he had a relative aboard who wore a white serge skirt, white stockings and shoes, and was further endowed with agreeable ankles.
He fitted his key to his door, turned it, withdrew the key to pocket it; and immediately became aware that the end of the key was sticky.
He entered the stateroom, however, and bolted the door, then he sat down on his sofa and examined his fingers and his door key attentively. There was wax sticking to both.
When he had fully digested this fact he wiped and pocketed his key and cast a rather vacant look around the little stateroom. And immediately his eye was arrested by a white object lying on the carpet between the bed and the sofa—a woman’s handkerchief, without crest or initials, but faintly scented.
After he became tired of alternately examining it and sniffing it, he put it in his pocket and began an uneasy tour of his room.
If it had been entered and ransacked, everything had been replaced exactly as he had left it, as well as he could remember. Nothing excepting this handkerchief and the wax on the key indicated intrusion; nothing, apparently, had been disturbed; and yet there was the handkerchief; and there was the wax on the end of his door key.
“Here’s a fine business!” he muttered to himself; and rang for his steward.
The man came—a cockney, dense as his native fog—who maintained that nobody could have entered the196stateroom without his knowledge or the knowledge of the stewardess.
“Do you thinkshe’sbeen in my cabin?”
“No, sir.”
“Call her.”
The stewardess, an alert, intelligent little woman with a trace of West Indian blood in her, denied entering his stateroom. Shown the handkerchief and invited to sniff it, she professed utter ignorance concerning it, assured him that no lady in her section used that perfume, and offered to show it to the stewardesses of other sections on the chance of their identifying the perfume or the handkerchief.
“All right,” said Neeland; “take it. But bring it back. And here’s a sovereign. And—one thing more. If anybody pays you to deceive me, come to me and I’ll outbid them. Is that a bargain?”
“Yes, sir,” she said unblushingly.
When she had gone away with the handkerchief, Neeland closed the door again and said to the steward:
“Keep an eye on my door. I am positive that somebody has taken a wax impression of the keyhole. What I said to that stewardess also holds good with you. I’ll outbid anybody who bribes you.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Sure it’s good! It’s devilish good. Here’s a beautiful and newly minted gold sovereign. Isn’t it artistic? It’s yours, steward.”
“Thanky, sir.”
“Not at all. And, by the way, what’s that invalid gentleman’s name?”
“’Awks, sir.”
“Hawks?”
“Yes, sir; Mr. ’Erbert ’Awks.”197
“American?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“British?”
“Shall I inquire, sir?” starting to go.
“Not ofhim! Don’t be a lunatic, steward! Please try to understand that I want nothing said about this matter or about my inquiries.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well, then! Find out, if you can, who Mr. Herbert Hawks is. Find out all you can concerning him. It’s easy money, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes, sir––”
“Wait a moment. Has he any friends or relatives on board?”
“Not that I know, sir.”
“Oh, no friends, eh? No ladies who wear white serge skirts and white shoes and stockings?”
“No, sir, not as I knows of.”
“Oh! Suppose you step across to his door, knock, and ask him if he rang. And, if the door is opened, take a quick slant at the room.”
“Very good, sir.”
Neeland, his door at the crack, watched the steward cross the corridor and knock at the door of Mr. Herbert Hawks.
“Well, what iss it?” came a heavy voice from within.
“Mr. ’Awks, sir, did you ring?”
“No, I did not.”
“Oh, beg pardon, sir––”
The steward was starting to return to Neeland, but that young man motioned him violently away from his door and closed it. Then, listening, his ear against the panel, he presently heard a door in the passage creak open a little way, then close again, stealthily.198
He possessed his soul in patience, believing that Mr. Hawks or his fair friend in the white skirt had merely taken a preliminary survey of the passage and perhaps also of his closed door. But the vigil was vain; the door did not reopen; no sound came from the stateroom across the passageway.
To make certain that the owner of the white shoes and stockings did not leave that stateroom without his knowledge, he opened his door with many precautions and left it on the crack, stretching a rubber band from knob to bolt, so that the wind from the open port in the passage should not blow it shut. Then, drawing his curtain, he sat down to wait.
He had a book, one of those slobbering American novels which serve up falsehood thickly buttered with righteousness and are consumed by the morally sterilised.
And, as he smoked he read; and, as he read he listened. One eye always remained on duty; one ear was alert; he meant to see who was the owner of the white shoes if it took the remainder of the voyage to find out.
The book aided him as a commonplace accompaniment aids a soloist—alternately boring and exasperating him.
It was an “uplift” book, where the heroine receives whacks with patient smiles. Fate boots her from pillar to post and she blesses Fate and is much obliged. That most deadly reproach to degenerate human nature—the accidental fact of sex—had been so skilfully extirpated from those pages that, like chaste amœbæ, the characters merely multiplied by immaculate subdivision; and millions of lineal descendants of the American Dodo were made gleeful for $1.50 net.199
It was hard work waiting, harder work reading, but between the two and a cigarette now and then Neeland managed to do his sentry go until dinner time approached and the corridors resounded with the trample of the hungry.
The stewardess reappeared a little later and returned to him his handkerchief and the following information:
Mr. Hawks, it appeared, travelled with a trained nurse, whose stateroom was on another deck. That nurse was not in her stateroom, but a similar handkerchief was, scented with similar perfume.
“You’re a wonder,” said Neeland, placing some more sovereigns in her palm and closing her fingers over them. “What is the nurse’s name?”
“Miss White.”
“Very suitable name. Has she ever before visited Herr—I meanMr.—Hawks in his stateroom?”
“Her stewardess says she has been indisposed since we left New York.”
“Hasn’t been out of her cabin?”
“No.”
“I see. Did you inquire what she looked like?”
“Her stewardess couldn’t be certain. The stateroom was kept dark and the tray containing her meals was left at the bedside. Miss White smokes.”
“Yes,” said Neeland reflectively, “she smokes Red Light cigarettes, I believe. Thank you, very much. More sovereigns if you are discreet. And say to my steward that I’ll dine in my stateroom. Soup, fish, meat, any old thing you can think of. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly, sir.”
When she had withdrawn he kneeled down on his200sofa and looked out through the port at the sunset sea.
There was a possibility that Scheherazade and her friends might be on board theVolhynia. Who else would be likely to take wax impressions of his keyhole and leave a scented scrap of a handkerchief on his stateroom floor?
That they had kept themselves not only out of sight but off the passenger list merely corroborated suspicion. That’s what they’d be likely to do.
And now there was no question in his mind of leaving the box in his cabin. He’d cling to it like a good woman to alimony. Death alone could separate his box from him.
As he knelt there, sniffing the salt perfume of the sea, his ears on duty detected the sound of a tray in the corridor.
“Leave it on the camp-table outside my door!” he said over his shoulder.
“Very good, sir.”
He was not hungry; he was thinking too hard.
“Confound it,” he thought to himself, “am I to squat here in ambush for the rest of the trip?”
The prospect was not agreeable for a man who loved the sea. All day and most of the starry night the hurricane deck called to him, and his whole anatomy responded. And now to sit hunched up here like a rat in the hold was not to his taste. Suppose he should continue to frequent the deck, carrying with him his box, of course. He might never discover who owned the white serge skirt or who owned the voice which pronounced is as “iss.”
Meanwhile, it occurred to him that for a quarter of an hour or more his dinner outside his door had been201growing colder and colder. So he slid from the sofa, unstrapped the rubber band, opened the door, lifted table and tray into his stateroom with a sharp glance at the opposite door, and, readjusting the rubber band, composed himself to eat.
202CHAPTER XVIIIBY RADIO
Perhaps it was because he did not feel particularly hungry that his dinner appeared unappetising; possibly because it had been standing in the corridor outside his door for twenty minutes, which did not add to its desirability.
The sun had set and the air in the room had grown cold. He felt chilly; and, when he uncovered the silver tureen and discovered that the soup was still piping hot, he drank some of it to warm himself.
He had swallowed about half a cupful before he discovered that the seasoning was not agreeable to his palate. In fact, the flavour of the hot broth was so decidedly unpleasant that he pushed aside the cup and sat down on the edge of his bunk without any further desire to eat anything.
A glass of water from the carafe did not seem to rid him of the subtle, disagreeable taste lingering in his mouth—in fact, the water itself seemed to be tainted with it.
He sat for a few moments fumbling for his cigarette case, feeling curiously uncomfortable, as though the slight motion of the ship were affecting his head.
As he sat there looking at the unlighted cigarette in his hand, it fell to the carpet at his feet. He started to stoop for it, caught himself in time, pulled himself erect with an effort.
Something was wrong with him—very wrong. Every203uneven breath he drew seemed to fill his lungs with the odour of that strange and volatile flavour he had noticed. It was beginning to make him giddy; it seemed to affect his vision, too.
Suddenly a terrible comprehension flashed through his confused mind, clearing it for a moment.
He tried to stand up and reach the electric bell; his knees seem incapable of sustaining him. Sliding to the floor, he attempted to crawl toward the olive-wood box; managed to get one arm around it, grip the handle. Then, with a last desperate effort, he groped in his breast pocket for the automatic pistol, freed it, tried to fire it. But the weapon and the unnerved hand that held it fell on the carpet. A muscular paralysis set in like the terrible rigidity of death; he could still see and hear as in a thickening dream.
A moment later, from the corridor, a slim hand was inserted between the door and jamb; the supple fingers became busy with the rubber band for a moment, released it. The door opened very slowly.
For a few seconds two dark eyes were visible between door and curtain, regarding intently the figure lying prone upon the floor. Then the curtain was twitched noiselessly aside; a young woman in the garb of a trained nurse stepped swiftly into the stateroom on tip-toe, followed by a big, good-looking, blue-eyed man wearing a square golden beard.
The man, who carried with him a pair of crutches, but who did not appear to require their aid, hastily set the dinner-tray and camp-table outside in the corridor, then closed and bolted the door.
Already the nurse was down on her knees beside the fallen man, trying to loosen his grasp on the box. Then her face blanched.204
“It’s like the rigor of death itself,” she whispered fearfully over her shoulder. “Could I have given him enough to kill him?”
“He took only half a cup and a swallow of water. No.”
“I can’t get his hand free––”
“Wait! I try!” He pulled a big, horn-handled clasp-knife from his pocket and deliberately opened the eight-inch blade.
“What are you doing?” she whispered, seizing his wrist. “Don’t do that!”
The man with the golden beard hesitated, then shrugged, pocketed his knife, and seized Neeland’s rigidly clenched hand.
“You are right. It makes too much muss!” tugging savagely at the clenched and unconscious hand. “Sacreminton! What for a death-grip is thisKerls? If I cut his hand off so iss there blood and gossip right away already. No—too much muss. Wait! I try another way––”
Neeland groaned.
“Oh, don’t! Don’t!” faltered the girl. “You’re breaking his wrist––”
“Ugh!” grunted her companion; “I try; I can it not accomplish. See once if the box opens!”
“It is locked.”
“Search this pig-dog for the key!”
She began a hurried search of Neeland’s clothing; presently discovered her own handkerchief; thrust it into her apron pocket, and continued rummaging while the bearded man turned his attention to the automatic pistol. This he finally succeeded in disengaging, and he laid it on the wash basin.
“Here are his keys,” whispered the nurse feverishly,205holding them up against the dim circle of evening sky framed by the open port. “You had better light the stateroom; I can’t see. Hurry! I think he is beginning to recover.”
When the bearded man had switched on the electric light he returned to kneel once more beside the inert body on the floor, and began to pull and haul and tug at the box and attempt to insert the key in the lock. But the stiffened clutch of the drugged man made it impossible either to release the box or get at the keyhole.
“Ach, was! Verflüchtete’ schwein-hund––!” He seized the rigid hand and, exerting all the strength of a brutally inflamed fury, fairly ripped loose the fingers.
“Also!” he panted, seizing the stiffened body from the floor and lifting it. “Hold you him by the long and Yankee legs once,undI push him out––”
“Out of the port?”
“Gewiss!Otherwise he recovers to raise some hell!”
“It is not necessary. How shall this man know?”
“You left your handkerchief. He iss no fool. He makes a noise. No, it iss safer we push him overboard.”
“I’ll take the papers to Karl, and then I can remain in my stateroom––”
“No!Lift his legs, I tell you! You want I hold him in my arms all day while you talk, talk, talk! You take his legs right away quick––!”
He staggered a few paces forward with his unwieldy burden and, setting one knee on the sofa, attempted to force Neeland’s head and shoulders through the open port. At the same moment a rapid knocking sounded outside the stateroom door.
“Quick!” breathed the nurse. “Throw him on his bed!”206
The blue-eyed, golden-bearded man hesitated, then as the knocking sounded again, imperative, persistent, he staggered to the bed with his burden, laid it on the pillows, seized his crutches, rested on them, breathing heavily, and listening to the loud and rapid knocking outside the door.
“We’ve got to open,” she whispered. “Don’t forget that we found him unconscious in the corridor!” And she slid the bolt noiselessly, opened the stateroom door, and stepped outside the curtain into the corridor.
The cockney steward stood there with a messenger.
“Wireless for Mr. Neeland––” he began; but his speech failed and his jaw fell at sight of the nurse in her cap and uniform. And when, on his crutches, the bearded man emerged from behind the curtain, the steward’s eyes fairly protruded.
“The young gentleman is ill,” explained the nurse coolly. “Mr. Hawks heard him fall in the corridor and came out on his crutches to see what had happened. I chanced to be passing through the main corridor, fortunately. I am doing what I can for the young gentleman.”
“Ow,” said the steward, staring over her shoulder at the bearded man on crutches.
“There iss no need of calling the ship’s doctor,” said the man on crutches. “This young woman iss a hospital nurseundshe iss so polite and obliging to volunteer her service for the poor young gentleman.”
“Yes,” she said carelessly, “I can remain here for an hour or two with him. He requires only a few simple remedies—I’ve already given him a sedative, and he is sleeping very nicely.”
“Yess, yess; it iss not grave. Pooh! It is notting. He slip and knock his head. Maybe too much207tchampagne. He sleep, and by and by he feel better. It iss not advisable to make a fuss. So! We are not longer needed, steward. I return to my room.”
And, nodding pleasantly, the bearded man hobbled out on his crutches and entered his own stateroom across the passage.
“Steward,” said the nurse pleasantly, “you may leave the wireless telegram with me. When Mr. Neeland wakes I’ll read it to him––”
“Give that telegram tome!” burst out a ghostly voice from the curtained room behind her.
Every atom of colour left her face, and she stood there as though stiffened into marble. The steward stared at her. Still staring, he passed gingerly in front of her and entered the curtained room.
Neeland was lying on his bed as white as death; but his eyes fluttered open in a dazed way:
“Steward,” he whispered.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Neeland.”
“My—box.” His eyes closed.
“Box, sir?”
“Where—is—it?”
“Which box, sir? Is it this one here on the floor?”—lifting the olive-wood box in its case. The key was in the lock; the other keys hung from it, dangling on a steel ring.
The nurse stepped calmly into the room.
“Steward,” she said in her low, pleasant voice, “the sedative I gave him has probably confused his mind a little––”
“Put that box—under—my head,” interrupted Neeland’s voice like a groan.
“I tell you,” whispered the nurse, “he doesn’t know what he is saying.”208
“I got to obey him, ma’am––”
“I forbid you––”
“Steward!” gasped Neeland.
“Sir?”
“My box. I—want it.”
“Certainly, sir––”
“Here, beside my—pillow.”
“Yes, sir.” He laid the box beside the sick man.
“Is it locked, steward?”
“Key sticking in it, sir. Yes, it’s locked, sir.”
“Open.”
The nurse, calm, pale, tight-lipped, stood by the curtain looking at the bed over which the steward leaned, opening the box.
“’Ere you are, sir,” he said, lifting the cover. “I say, nurse, give ’im a lift, won’t you?”
The nurse coolly stepped to the bedside, stooped, raised the head and shoulders of the prostrate man. After a moment his eyes unclosed; he looked at the contents of the box with a perceptible effort.
“Lock it, steward. Place it beside me.... Next the wall.... So.... Place the keys in my pocket.... Thank you.... I had a—pistol.”
“Sir?”
“A pistol. Where is it?”
The steward’s roving glance fell finally upon the washbasin. He walked over, picked up the automatic, and, with an indescribable glance at the nurse, laid it across Neeland’s up-turned palm.
The young man’s fingers fumbled it, closed over the handle; and a ghost of a smile touched his ashen face.
“Do you feel better, sir?”
“I’m tired.... Yes, I feel—better.”
“Can I do anything for you, Mr. Neeland?”209
“Stay outside—my door.”
“Do you wish the doctor, sir?”
“No.... No!... Don’t call him; do you hear?”
“I won’t call him, sir.”
“No, don’t call him.”
“No, sir.... Mr. Neeland, there is a—a trained nurse here. You will not want her, will you, sir?”
Again the shadow of a smile crept over Neeland’s face.
“Did she come for—her handkerchief?”
There was a silence; the steward looked steadily at the nurse; the nurse’s dark eyes were fixed on the man lying there before her.
“You shan’t be wanting her any more, shall you, sir?” repeated the steward, not shifting his gaze.
“Yes; I think I shall want her—for a little while.”... Neeland slowly opened his eyes, smiled up at the motionless nurse: “How are you, Scheherazade?” he said weakly. And, to the steward, with an effort: “Miss White and I are—old friends.... However—kindly remain outside—my door.... And throw what remains of my dinner—out of—the port.... And be ready—at all times—to look after the—gentleman on crutches.... I’m—fond of him.... Thank you, steward.”
Long after the steward had closed the stateroom door, Ilse Dumont stood beside Neeland’s bed without stirring. Once or twice he opened his eyes and looked at her humorously. After a while he said:
“Please be seated, Scheherazade.”
She calmly seated herself on the edge of his couch.
“Horrid soup,” he murmured. “You should attend a cooking school, my dear.”210
She regarded him absently, as though other matters absorbed her.
“Yes,” he repeated, “as a cook you’re a failure, Scheherazade. That broth which you seasoned for me has done funny things to my eyes, too. But they’re recovering. I see much better already. My vision is becoming sufficiently clear to observe how pretty you are in your nurse’s cap and apron.”
A slow colour came into her face and he saw her eyebrows bend inward as though she were annoyed.
“Youarepretty, Scheherazade,” he repeated. “You know you are, don’t you? But you’re a poor cook and a rotten shot. You can’t be perfection, you know. Cheer up!”
She ignored the suggestion, her dark eyes brooding and remote again; and he lay watching her with placid interest in which no rancour remained. He was feeling decidedly better every minute now. He lifted the automatic pistol and shoved it under his pillow, then cautiously flexed his fingers, his arms, and finally his knees, with increasing pleasure and content.
“Such dreadful soup,” he said. “But I’m a lot better, thank you. Was it to have been murder this time, too, Scheherazade? Would the entire cupful have made a pretty angel of me? Oh, fie! Naughty Scheherazade!”
She remained mute.
“Didn’t you mean manslaughter with intent to exterminate?” he insisted, watching her.
Perhaps she was thinking of her blond and bearded companion, and the open port, for she made no reply.
“Why didn’t you let him heave me out?” inquired Neeland. “Why did you object?”211
At that she reddened to the roots of her hair, understanding that what she feared had been true—that Neeland, while physically helpless, had retained sufficient consciousness to be aware of what was happening to him and to understand at least a part of the conversation.
“What was the stuff with which you flavoured that soup, Scheherazade?”
He was merely baiting her; he did not expect any reply; but, to his surprise, she answered him:
“Threlanium—Speyer’s solution is what I used,” she said with a sort of listless effrontery.
“Don’t know it. Don’t like it, either. Prefer other condiments.”
He lifted himself on one elbow, remained propped so, tore open his wireless telegram, and, after a while, contrived to read it:
“James Neeland,“S. S.Volhynia.“Spies aboard. Be careful. If trouble threatens captain has instructions British Government to protect you and order arrests on your complaint.“Naïa.”
“James Neeland,“S. S.Volhynia.
“Spies aboard. Be careful. If trouble threatens captain has instructions British Government to protect you and order arrests on your complaint.
“Naïa.”
With a smile that was almost a grin, Neeland handed the telegram to Ilse Dumont.
“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.212
“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! Ought213not 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’tit 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,214nothing 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 theVolhynia.
The bearded gentleman in the stateroom across the215passage 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.
216CHAPTER XIXTHE CAPTAIN OF THE VOLHYNIA
The captain of theVolhyniahad 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 theMidweek 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.”
“It hadn’t struck me so until I drew her from memory. And there’s more to the story. I never met her but twice in my life—the second time under exceedingly dramatic circumstances. And now I’m crossing the Atlantic at a day’s notice to oblige her. It’s an amusing story, isn’t it?”
“Mr. Neeland, I think it is going to be what you call a ‘continued’ story.”
“No. Oh, no. It ought to be, considering its217elements. But it isn’t. There’s no further romance in it, Captain West.”
The captain’s smile was pleasant but sceptical.
They seated themselves, Neeland declining an invitation to supper, and the captain asking his indulgence if he talked while eating.
“Mr. Neeland,” he said, “I’m about to talk rather frankly with you. I have had several messages by wireless today from British sources, concerning you.”
Neeland, surprised, said nothing. Captain West finished his bite of supper; the steward removed the dishes and went out, closing the door. The captain glanced at the box which Neeland had set on the floor by his chair.
“May I ask,” he said, “why you brought your suitcase with you?”
“It’s valuable.”
The captain’s keen eyes were on his.
“Why are you followed by spies?” he asked.
Neeland reddened.
“Yes,” continued the captain of theVolhynia, “my Government instructs me, by wireless, to offer you any aid and protection you may desire. I am informed that you carry papers of military importance to a certain foreign nation with which neither England nor France are on what might be called cordial terms. I am told it is likely that agents of this foreign country have followed you aboard my ship for the purpose of robbing you of these papers. Now, Mr. Neeland, what do you know about this business?”
“Very little,” said Neeland.
“Have you had any trouble?”
“Oh, yes.”
The captain smiled:218
“Evidently you have wriggled out of it,” he said.
“Yes, wriggled is the literal word.”
“Then you do not think that you require any protection from me?”
“Perhaps I do. I’ve been a singularly innocent and lucky ass. It’s merely chance that my papers have not been stolen, even before I started in quest of them.”
“Have you been troubled aboard my ship?”
Neeland waved his hand carelessly:
“Nothing to speak of, thank you.”
“If you have any charge to make––”
“Oh, no.”
The captain regarded him intently:
“Let me tell you something,” he said. “Since we sailed, have you noticed the bulletins posted containing our wireless news?”
“Yes, I’ve read them.”
“Did they interest you?”
“Yes. You mean that row between Austria and Servia over the Archduke’s murder?”
“I mean exactly that, Mr. Neeland. And now I am going to tell you something else. Tonight I had a radio message which I shall not post on the bulletins for various reasons. But I shall tell you under the seal of confidence.”
“I give you my word of honour,” said Neeland quietly.
“I accept it, Mr. Neeland. And this is what has happened: Austria has decided on an ultimatum to Servia. And probably will send it.”
They remained silent for a moment, then the captain continued:
“Why should we deceive ourselves? This is the most serious thing that has happened since the Hohenzollern219incident which brought on the Franco-Prussian War.”
Neeland nodded.
“You see?” insisted the captain. “Suppose the humiliation is too severe for Servia to endure? Suppose she refuses the Austrian terms? Suppose Austria mobilises against her? What remains for Russia to do except to mobilise? And, if Russia does that, what is going to happen in Germany? And then, instantly and automatically, what will follow in France?” His mouth tightened grimly. “England,” he said, “is the ally of France. Ask yourself, Mr. Neeland, what are the prospects of this deadly combination and deadlier situation.”
After a few moments the young man looked up from his brown study:
“I’d like to ask you a question—perhaps not germane to the subject. May I?”
“Ask it.”
“Then, of what interest are Turkish forts to any of the various allied nations—to the Triple Entente or the Triple Alliance?”
“Turkish fortifications?”
“Yes—plans for them.”
The captain glanced instinctively at the box beside Neeland’s chair, but his features remained incurious.
“Turkey is supposed to be the ally of Germany,” he said.
“I’ve heard so. I know that the Turkish army is under German officers. But—if war should happen, is it likely that this ramshackle nation which was fought to a standstill by the Balkan Alliance only a few months ago would be likely to take active sides?”
“Mr. Neeland, it is not only likely, it is absolutely certain.”220
“You believe Germany would count on her?”
“There is not a doubt of it. Enver Pasha holds the country in his right hand; Enver Pasha is the Kaiser’s jackal.”
“But Turkey is a beaten, discredited nation. She has no modern guns. Her fleet is rusting in the Bosporus.”
“The Dardanelles bristle with Krupp cannon, Mr. Neeland, manned by German gunners. Von der Goltz Pasha has made of a brave people a splendid army. As for ships, the ironclads and gunboats off Seraglio Point are rusting at anchor, as you say; but there are today enough German and Austrian armored ships within running distance of the Dardanelles to make for Turkey a powerful defensive squadron. Didn’t you know any of these facts?”
“No.”
“Well, theyarefacts.... You see, Mr. Neeland, we English sailors of the merchant marine are also part of the naval reserve. And we are supposed to know these things.”
Neeland was silent.
“Mr. Neeland,” he said, “in case of war between the various powers of Europe as aligned today, where do you imagine your sympathy would lie—and the sympathies of America?”
“Both with France and England,” said Neeland bluntly.
“You think so?”
“Yes, I do—unless they are the aggressors.”
The captain nodded:
“I feel rather that way myself. I feel very sure of the friendliness of your country. Because of course we—France and England—never would dream of attacking221the Central Powers unless first assailed.” He smiled, nodded toward the box on the floor: “Don’t you think, Mr. Neeland, that it might be safer to entrust those—that box, I mean—to the captain of the Royal Mail steamer,Volhynia?”
“Yes, I do,” said Neeland quietly.
“And—about these spies. Do you happen to entertain any particular suspicions concerning any of the passengers on my ship?” urged the captain.
“Indeed, I entertain lively suspicions, and even a few certainties,” replied the young fellow, laughing.
“You appear to enjoy the affair?”
“I do. I’ve never had such a good time. I’m not going to spoil it by suggesting that you lock up anybody, either.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” said the captain seriously.
“But I do. They’re friends of mine. They’ve given me the time of my life. A dirty trick I’d be serving myself as well as them if I came to you and preferred charges against them!”
The captain inspected him curiously for a few moments, then, in a soft voice:
“By any chance, Mr. Neeland, have you any Irish blood in your veins?”
“Yes, thank God!” returned the young fellow, unable to control his laughter. “And I’ll bet there isn’t a drop in you, Captain West.”
“Not a drop, thank G—I’m sorry!—I ask your pardon, Mr. Neeland!” added the captain, very red in the face.
But Neeland laughed so hard that, after a moment, the red died out in the captain’s face and a faint grin came into it.222
So they shook hands and said good night; and Neeland went away, leaving his box on the floor of the captain’s cabin as certain of its inviolability as he was of the Bank of England.