The Dark Star

However, before five o'clock he had scrubbed himself and arrayed his

well constructed person in fresh linen and outer clothing; and now he

sauntered out through the hallway and down the stairs to the rear

drawing-room, where a tea-table had been brought in and tea

paraphernalia arranged. Although the lamp under the kettle had been

lighted, nobody was in the room except a West Highland terrier curled

up on a lounge, who, without lifting his snow-white head, regarded

Neeland out of the wisest and most penetrating eyes the young man had

ever encountered.

Here was a personality! Here was a dog not to be approached lightly or

with flippant familiarity. No! That small, long, short-legged body

with its thatch of wiry white hair was fairly instinct with dignity,

wisdom, and uncompromising self-respect.

"That dog," thought Neeland, venturing to seat himself on a chair

opposite, "is a Presbyterian if ever there was one. And I, for one,

haven't the courage to address him until he deigns to speak to me."

He looked respectfully at the dog, glanced at the kettle which had

begun to sizzle a little, then looked out of the long windows into the

little walled garden where a few slender fruit trees grew along the

walls in the rear of well-kept flower beds, now gay with phlox,

larkspur, poppies, and heliotrope, and edged with the biggest and

bluest pansies he had ever beheld.

On the wall a Peacock butterfly spread its brown velvet and gorgeously

eyed wings to the sun's warmth; a blackbird with brilliant yellow bill

stood astride a peach twig and poured out a bubbling and incessant

melody full of fluted grace notes. And on the grass oval a kitten

frisked with the ghosts of last month's dandelions, racing after the

drifting fluff and occasionally keeling over to attack its own tail,

after the enchanting manner of all kittens.

A step behind him and Neeland turned. It was Marotte, the butler, who

presented a thick, sealed envelope to him on his salver, bent to turn

down the flame under the singing silver kettle, and withdrew without a

sound.

Neeland glanced at the letter in perplexity, opened the envelope and

the twice-folded sheets of letter paper inside, and read this odd

communication: * * * * * Have I been fair to you? Did I keep my word? Surely you must now, in

your heart, acquit me of treachery--of any premeditated violence

toward you.

I never dreamed that those men would come to my stateroom. That plan

had been discussed, but was abandoned because it appeared impossible

to get hold of you.

And also--may I admit it without being misunderstood?--I absolutely

refused to permit any attempt involving your death.

When the trap shut on you, there in my stateroom, it shut also on me.

I was totally unprepared; I was averse to murder; and also I had given

you my word of honour.