The Dark Star

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.