The Dark Star

At the Orangeville garage Neeland stopped his car, put on his straw

hat, got out carrying suitcase and box, entered the office, and turned

over the care of the machine to an employee with orders to drive it

back to Neeland's Mills the next morning.

Then he leisurely returned to his prisoner who had given him her name

as Ilse Dumont and who was standing on the sidewalk beside the car.

"Well, Scheherazade," he said, smiling, "teller of marvellous tales, I

don't quite believe your stories, but they were extremely

entertaining. So I won't bowstring you or cut off your unusually

attractive head! No! On the contrary, I thank you for your

wonder-tales, and for not murdering me. And, furthermore, I bestow

upon you your liberty. Have you sufficient cash to take you where you

desire to waft yourself?"

All the time her dark, unsmiling eyes remained fixed on him, calmly

unresponsive to his badinage.

"I'm sorry I had to be rough with you, Scheherazade," he continued,

"but when a young lady sews her clothes full of papers which don't

belong to her, what, I ask you, is a modest young man to do?"

She said nothing.

"It becomes necessary for that modest young man to can his

modesty--and the young lady's. Is there anything else he could do?" he

repeated gaily.

"He had better return those papers," she replied in a low voice.

"I'm sorry, Scheherazade, but it isn't done in ultra-crooked circles.

Are you sure you have enough money to go where destiny and booty call

you?"

"I have what I require," she answered dryly.

"Then good-bye, Pearl of the Harem! Without rancour, I offer you the

hand that reluctantly chastened you."

They remained facing each other in silence for a moment; his

expression was mischievously amused; hers inscrutable. Then, as he

patiently and good-humouredly continued to offer her his hand, very

slowly she laid her own in it, still looking him directly in the

eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said in a low voice.

"For what? For not shooting me?"

"I'm sorry for you, Mr. Neeland.... You're only a boy, after all.

You know nothing. And you refuse to learn.... I'm sorry....

Good-bye."

"Could I take you anywhere? To the Hotel Orange? I've time. The

station is across the street."

"No," she said.

She walked leisurely along the poorly lighted street and turned the

first corner as though at hazard. The next moment her trim and

graceful figure had disappeared.

With his heart still gay from the night's excitement, and the drop of

Irish blood in him lively as champagne, he crossed the square briskly,

entered the stuffy station, bought a ticket, and went out to the

wooden platform beside the rails.

Placing box and suitcase side by side, he seated himself upon them and

lighted a cigarette.