The Dark Star

Here was an adventure! Whether or not he understood it, here

certainly was a real, story-book adventure at last. And he began to

entertain a little more respect for those writers of romance who have

so persistently attempted to convince an incredulous world that

adventures are to be had anywhere and at any time for the mere effort

entailed in seeking them.

In his case, however, he had not sought adventure. It had been thrust

upon him by cable.

And now the drop of Irish in him gratefully responded. He was much

obliged to Fate for his evening's entertainment; he modestly ventured

to hope for favours to come. And, considering the coolly veiled

threats of this young woman whom he had treated with scant ceremony,

he had some reason to expect a sequel to the night's adventure.

"She," he thought to himself, "had nothing on Godiva--except a piano

cover!"

Recollection of the absurd situation incited his reprehensible

merriment to the point of unrestrained laughter; and he clasped his

knees and rocked to and fro, where he sat on his suitcase, all alone

under the stars.

The midnight express was usually from five to forty minutes late at

Orangeville; but from there east it made up time on the down grade to

Albany.

And now, as he sat watching, far away along the riverside a star came

gliding into view around an unseen curve--the headlight of a distant

locomotive.

A few moments later he was in his drawing-room, seated on the edge of

the couch, his door locked, the shade over the window looking on the

corridor drawn down as far as it would go; and the train rushing

through the starry night on the down grade toward Albany.

He could not screen the corridor window entirely; the shade seemed to

be too short; but it was late, the corridor dark, all the curtains in

the car closed tightly over the berths, and his privacy was not likely

to be disturbed. And when the conductor had taken both tickets and the

porter had brought him a bottle of mineral water and gone away, he

settled down with great content.

Neeland was in excellent humour. He had not the slightest inclination

to sleep. He sat on the side of his bed, smoking, the olive-wood box

lying open beside him, and its curious contents revealed.

But now, as he carefully examined the papers, photographs, and

drawings, he began to take the affair a little more seriously. And the

possibility of further trouble raised his already high spirits and

caused that little drop of Irish blood to sing agreeably in his

veins.

Dipping into Herr Wilner's diary added a fillip to the increasing

fascination that was possessing him.

"Well, I'm damned," he thought, "if it doesn't really look as though

the plans of these Turkish forts might be important! I'm not very much

astonished that the Kaiser and the Sultan desire to keep for

themselves the secrets of these fortifications. They really belong to

them, too. They were drawn and planned by a German." He shrugged. "A

rotten alliance!" he muttered, and picked up the bronze Chinese figure

to examine it.