The Dark Star

And now he remembered that Ilse Dumont apparently knew about

her--about Ruhannah, too. And Ilse Dumont was the agent of a foreign

government.

Was the Princess Mistchenka, patron and amateur of the arts, another

such agent? If not, why had he taken this journey for her with this

box of papers?

The passage of the Boulevard was slow; at every square traffic was

halted; all Paris crowded the streets in the early afternoon sunshine,

and the taxicab in which they sat made little speed until the Place de

la Concorde opened out and the great Arc--a tiny phantom of lavender

and pearl--spanned the vanishing point of a fairy perspective between

parallel and endless ramparts of tender green.

"There was a lot of war talk on the Volhynia," said Neeland, "but I

haven't heard any since I landed, nor have I seen a paper. I suppose

the Chancelleries have come to some agreement."

"No," said the Princess.

"You don't expect trouble, do you? I mean a general European

free-for-all fight?"

"I don't know, Jim."

"Haven't you," he asked blandly, "any means of acquiring inside

information?"

She did not even pretend to evade the good-humoured malice of his

smile and question: "Yes; I have sources of private information. I have learned nothing,

so far."

He looked at Rue, but the smile had faded from her face and she

returned his questioning gaze gravely.

"There is great anxiety in Europe," she said in a low voice, "and the

tension is increasing. When we arrive home we shall have a chance to

converse more freely." She made the slightest gesture with her head

toward the chauffeur--a silent reminder and a caution.

The Princess nodded slightly: "One never knows," she remarked. "We shall have much to say to one

another when we are safely home."

But Neeland could not take it very seriously here in the sunshine,

with two pretty women facing him--here speeding up the Champs Elysées

between the endless green of chestnut trees and the exquisite

silvery-grey façades of the wealthy--with motors flashing by on every

side and the cool, leafy alleys thronged with children and

nurse-maids, and Monsieur Guignol squeaking and drumming in his

red-curtained box!

How could a young man believe in a sequel to the almost incredible

melodrama in which he had figured, with such a sane and delightful

setting, here in the familiar company of two charming women he had

known?

Besides, all Paris and her police were at his elbow; the olive-wood

box stood between his knees; a smartly respectable taxi and its driver

drove them with the quiet éclat and precision of a private

employé; the Arc de Triomphe already rose splendidly above them, and

everything that had once been familiar and reassuring and delightful

lay under his grateful eyes on every side.