The Dark Star

He thought of Ilse Dumont and of the man with the golden beard,

realising that he had had a wonderful time, after all; sorry in his

heart that it was all over and that the Volhynia was due to let go

her mudhooks in the Mersey about three o'clock the next morning.

As he leaned on the deck rail in the soft July darkness, he could see

the lights of the destroyers to port and starboard, see strings of

jewel-like signals flash, twinkle, fade, and flash again.

All around him along the deck passengers were promenading, girls in

evening gowns or in summer white; men in evening dress or reefed in

blue as nautically as possible; old ladies toddling, swathed in veils,

old gentlemen in dinner coats and sporting headgear--every weird or

conventional combination infested the decks of the Volhynia.

Now, for the first time during the voyage, Neeland felt free to lounge

about where he listed, saunter wherever the whim of the moment

directed his casual steps. The safety of the olive-wood box was no

longer on his mind, the handle no longer in his physical clutch. He

was at liberty to stroll as carelessly as any boulevard flâneur; and

he did so, scanning the passing throng for a glimpse of Ilse Dumont or

of the golden-bearded one, but not seeing either of them.

In fact, he had not laid eyes on them since he had supped not wisely

but too well on the soup that Scheherazade had flavoured for him.

The stateroom door of the golden-bearded man had remained closed. His

own little cockney steward, who also looked out for Golden Beard,

reported that gentleman as requiring five meals a day, with beer in

proportion, and the porcelain pipe steaming like Ætna all day long.

His little West Indian stewardess also reported the gossip from her

friend on another corridor, which was, in effect, that Miss White, the

trained nurse, took all meals in her room and had not been observed

to leave that somewhat monotonous sanctuary.

How many more of the band there might be Neeland did not know. He

remembered vaguely, while lying rigid under the grip of the drug, that

he had heard Ilse Dumont's voice mention somebody called Karl. And he

had an idea that this Karl might easily be the big, ham-fisted German

who had tried so earnestly to stifle him and throw him from the

vestibule of the midnight express.

However, it did not matter now. The box was safe in the captain's

care; the Volhynia would be lying at anchor off Liverpool before

daylight; the whole exciting and romantic business was ended.