The Dark Star

It was evident that his good-humoured mockery perplexed her. Once or

twice the shadow of a smile passed over her dark eyes, but they

remained uncertain and watchful.

"You really were astonished to see me alive again, weren't you?" he

asked.

"I was surprised to see you, of course."

"Alive?"

"I told you that I asked them not to really hurt you."

"Do you suppose I believe that, after your pistol practice on me?"

"It is true," she replied, her eyes resting on him.

"You wished to reserve me for more pistol practice?"

"I have no--enmity--for you."

"Oh, Scheherazade!" he protested, laughing.

"You are wrong, Mr. Neeland."

"After all I did to you?"

To his surprise a bright blush spread over her face where it lay

framed by the pillows; she turned her head abruptly and lay without

speaking.

He sat thinking for a few minutes, then leaning forward from where he

sat on the bed's edge: "After a man's been shot at and further intimidated with a large,

unpleasantly rusty Kurdish dagger, he is likely to proceed without

ceremony. All the same, I am sorry I had to humiliate you,

Scheherazade."

She lay silent, unstirring.

"A girl would never forgive that, I know," he said. "So I shall look

for a short shrift from you if your opportunity ever comes."

The girl appeared to be asleep. He stood up and looked down at her.

The colour had faded from the one cheek visible. For a while he

listened to her quiet breathing, then, the imp of perversity seizing

him, and intensely diverted by the situation, he bent over her,

touched her cheek with his lips, put on his hat, took box and

suitcase, and went out to spend the remaining hour or two in the

smoking room, leaving her to sleep in peace.

But no sooner had he closed the door on her than the girl sat straight

up on the sofa, her face surging in colour, and her eyes brilliant

with starting tears.

When the train arrived at the Grand Central Station, in the grey of a

July morning, Neeland, finding the stateroom empty, lingered to watch

for her among the departing passengers.

But he lingered in vain; and presently a taxicab took him and his box

to the Cunard docks, and deposited him there. And an hour later he was

in his cabin on board that vast ensemble of machinery and luxury, the

Cunarder Volhynia, outward bound, and headed straight at the

dazzling disc of the rising sun.

And thought of Scheherazade faded from his mind as a tale that is

told.