Nobody disturbed him; nobody questioned him; the train officials were
civil and incurious, and went calmly about their business with all the
traditional stolidity of official John Bull.
Neeland had plenty of leisure to think as he sat there in his heavy
chair which vibrated but did not sway very much; and his mind was
fully occupied with his reflections, for, so far, he had not had time
to catalogue, index, and arrange them in proper order, so rapid and so
startling had been the sequence of events since he had left his studio
in New York for Paris, via Brookhollow, London, and other points
east.
One thing in particular continued to perplex and astonish him: the
identity of a member of Parliament, known as Charles Wilson, suddenly
revealed as Karl Breslau, an international spy.
The wildest flight of fancy of an irresponsible novelist had never
created such a character in penny-dreadful fiction. It remained
incomprehensible, almost incredible to Neeland that such a thing could
be true.
Also, the young man had plenty of food for reflection, if not for
luncheon, in trying to imagine exactly how Golden Beard and Ali Baba,
and that strange, illogical young girl, Ilse Dumont, had escaped from
the Volhynia.
Probably, in the darkness, the fishing boat which they expected had
signalled in some way or other. No doubt the precious trio had taken
to the water in their life-jackets and had been picked up even before
armed sailors on the Volhynia descended to their empty state-rooms
and took possession of what luggage could be discovered, and of the
three bombs with their charred wicks still soaking on the sopping
bed.
And now the affair had finally ended, Neeland believed, in spite of
Captain West's warnings. For how could three industrious conspirators
in a fishing smack off the Lizard do him any further damage?
If they had managed to relay information concerning him to their
friends ashore by some set of preconcerted signals, possibly the
regular steamer train to and out of London might be watched.
Thinking of this, it presently occurred to Neeland that friends in
France, also, might be stirred up in time to offer him their marked
attentions. This, no doubt, was what Captain West meant; and Neeland
considered the possibility as the flying train whirled him toward the
Channel.
He asked if he might smoke, and was informed that he might; and he
lighted a cigarette and stretched out on his chair, a little hungry
from lack of luncheon, a trifle tired from lack of sleep, but, in
virtue of his vigorous and youthful years, comfortable, contented, and
happy.
Never, he admitted, had he had such a good time in all his life,
despite the fact that chance alone, and not his own skill and
alertness and perspicacity, had saved his neck.