The Dark Star

"I wanted to ask you," she said in a low voice, "did you kill

them?"

"Not at all, Scheherazade," he replied gaily. "The Irish don't kill;

they beat up their friends; that's all. Fist and blackthorn, my pretty

lass, but nix for the knife and gun."

"How--did you do it?"

"Well, I got tired having a ham-fisted Dutchman pawing me and closing

my mouth with his big splay fingers. So I asked him to slide overboard

and shoved his friend after him."

"Did you shoot them?"

"No, I tell you!" he said disgustedly. "I hadn't a chance in hot

blood, and I couldn't do it in cold. No, Scheherazade, I didn't shoot.

I pulled a gun for dramatic effect, that's all."

After a silence she asked him in a low voice what he intended to do

with her.

"Do? Nothing! Chat affably with you until we reach town, if you don't

mind. Nothing more violent than that, Scheherazade."

The girl, sitting sideways on the sofa, leaned her head against the

velvet corner as though very tired. Her small hands lay in her lap

listlessly, palms up-turned.

"Are you really tired?" he asked.

"Yes, a little."

He took the two pillows from his bed and placed them on the sofa.

"You may lie down if you like, Scheherazade."

"Won't you need them?"

"Sunburst of my soul, if I pillow my head on anything while you are in

the vicinity, it will be on that olive-wood box!"

For the first time the faintest trace of a smile touched her lips. She

turned, settled the pillows to her liking, and stretched out her

supple figure on the sofa with a slight sigh.

"Shall I talk to you, Scheherazade, or let you snuggle into the chaste

arms of Morpheus?"

"I can't sleep."

"Is it a talk-fest, then?"

"I am listening."

"Then, were the two recent gentlemen who so rudely pounced upon me the

same gentlemen who so cheerfully chased me in an automobile when you

made red fire?"

"Yes."

"I was betting on it. Nice-looking man--the one with the classical map

and the golden Frick."

She said nothing.

"Scheherazade," he continued with smiling malice, "do you realise that

you are both ornamental and young? Why so young and murderous, fair

houri? Why delight in manslaughter in any degree? Why cultivate

assault and battery? Why swipe the property of others?"

She closed her eyes on the pillow, but, as he remained silent,

presently opened them again.

"I asked them not to hurt you," she said irrelevantly.

"Who? Oh, your strenuous friends with the footpad technique? Well,

they obeyed you unwillingly."

"Did they hurt you?"

"Oh, no. But the car-wheels might have."

"The car-wheels?"

"Yes. They were all for dumping me down the steps of the vestibule.

But I've got a nasty disposition, Scheherazade, and I kicked and bit

and screamed so lustily that I disgusted them and they simply left the

train and concluded to cut my acquaintance."