The Dark Star

Then, of a sudden, came a change in the fortunes of war; they were

trying to drag him over the chain sagging between the forward mail-car

and the Pullman, when one of them caught his foot on it and stumbled

backward, releasing Neeland's right arm. In the same instant he drove

his fist into the face of his other assailant so hard that the man's

head jerked backward as though his neck were broken, and he fell flat

on his back.

Already the train was slowing down for the single stop between Albany

and New York--Hudson. Neeland got out his pistol and pointed it

shakily at the man who had fallen backward over the chain.

"Jump!" he panted. "Jump quick!"

The man needed no other warning; he opened the trap, scrambled and

wriggled down the mail-car steps, and was off the train like a snake

from a sack.

The other man, bloody and ghastly white, crept under the chain after

his companion. He was a well-built, good-looking man of forty, with

blue eyes and a golden beard all over blood. He seemed sick from the

terrific blow dealt him; but as the train had almost stopped, Neeland

pushed him off with the flat of his foot.

Drenched in perspiration, dishevelled, bruised, he slammed both traps

and ran back into the dark corridor, and met Ilse Dumont coming out of

his stateroom carrying the olive-wood box.

His appearance appeared to stupefy her; he took the box from her

without resistance, and, pushing her back into the stateroom, locked

the door.

Then, still savagely excited, and the hot blood of battle still

seething in his veins, he stood staring wickedly into her dazed eyes,

the automatic pistol hanging from his right fist.

But after a few moments something in her naïve astonishment--her

amazement to see him alive and standing there before her--appealed to

him as intensely ludicrous; he dropped on the edge of the bed and

burst into laughter uncontrolled.

"Scheherazade! Oh, Scheherazade!" he said, weak with laughter, "if you

could only see your face! If you could only see it, my dear child!

It's too funny to be true! It's too funny to be a real face! Oh, dear,

I'll die if I laugh any more. You'll assassinate me with your face!"

She seated herself on the lounge opposite, still gazing blankly at him

in his uncontrollable mirth.

After a while he put back the automatic into his breast pocket, took

off coat and waistcoat, without paying the slightest heed to her or to

convention; opened his own suitcase, selected a fresh shirt, tie, and

collar, and, taking with him his coat and the olive-wood box, went

into the little washroom.

He scarcely expected to find her there when he emerged, cooled and

refreshed; but she was still there, seated as he had left her on the

lounge.