The Dark Star

And now the taxicab turned into the rue Soleil d'Or--a new street to

Neeland, opened since his student days, and only one square long, with

a fountain in the middle and young chestnut trees already thickly

crowned with foliage lining both sides of the street.

But although the rue Soleil d'Or was a new street to him, Paris

construction is also a rapid affair. The street was faced by charming

private houses built of grey Caen stone; the fountain with its golden

sun-dial, with the seated figure--a life-size replica of Manship's

original in the Metropolitan Museum--serenely and beautifully holding

its place between the Renaissance façades and rows of slender trees.

Summer had not yet burned foliage or flowers; the freshness of spring

itself seemed still to reign there.

Three blue-bloused street-sweepers with hose and broom were washing

the asphalt as their cab slowed down, sounding its horn to warn them

out of the way. And, the spouting hose still in their hands, the

street-cleaners stepped out of the gutter before the pretty private

hotel of Madame la Princesse.

Already a butler was opening the grille; already the chauffeur had

swung Neeland's steamer trunk and suitcase to the sidewalk; already

the Princess and Rue were advancing to the house, while Neeland

fumbled in his pocket for the fare.

The butler, bowing, relieved him of the olive-wood box. At the same

instant the blue-bloused man with the hose turned the powerful stream

of water directly into the butler's face, knocking him flat on the

sidewalk; and his two comrades tripped up Neeland, passed a red sash

over his head, and hurled him aside, blinded, half strangled,

staggering at random, tearing furiously at the wide band of woollen

cloth which seemed to suffocate him.

Already the chauffeur had tossed the olive-wood box into the cab; the

three blue-bloused men sprang in after it; the chauffeur slipped into

his seat, threw in the clutch, and, driving with one hand, turned a

pistol on the half drowned butler, who had reeled to his feet and was

lurching forward to seize the steering wheel.

The taxicab, gathering speed, was already turning the corner of the

rue de la Lune when Neeland managed to free throat and eyes from the

swathe of woollen.

The butler, checked by the levelled pistol, stood dripping, still

almost blinded by the force of the water from the hose; but he had

plenty of pluck, and he followed Neeland on a run to the corner of the

street.

The street was absolutely empty, except for the sparrows, and the big,

fat, slate-coloured pigeons that strutted and coo-cooed under the

shadow of the chestnut trees.