The Dark Star

He sat there, holding the letter and looking absently over it at the

little dog who had gone to sleep again. There was no sound in the room

save the faint whisper of the tea-kettle. The sunny garden outside was

very still, too; the blackbird appeared to doze on his peach twig; the

kitten had settled down with eyes half closed and tail tucked under

flank.

The young man sat there with his letter in his hand and eyes lost in

retrospection for a while.

In his hand lay evidence that the gang which had followed him, and

through which he no longer doubted that he had been robbed, was now in

Paris.

And yet he could not give this information to the Princess Naïa. Here

was a letter which he could not show. Something within him forbade it,

some instinct which he did not trouble to analyse.

And this instinct sent the letter into his breast pocket as a light

sound came to his ears; and the next instant Rue Carew entered the

further drawing-room.

The little West Highland terrier looked up, wagged that section of him

which did duty as a tail, and watched her as Neeland rose to seat her

at the tea-table.

"Sandy," she said to the little dog, "if you care to say 'Down with

the Sultan,' I shall bestow one lump of sugar upon you."

"Yap-yap!" said the little dog.

"Give it to him, please----" Rue handed the sugar to Neeland, who

delivered it gravely.

"That's because I want Sandy to like you," she added.

Neeland regarded the little dog and addressed him politely: "I shouldn't dare call you Sandy on such brief acquaintance," he said;

"but may I salute you as Alexander? Thank you, Alexander."

He patted the dog, whose tail made a slight, sketchy motion of

approval.

"Now," said Rue Carew, "you are friends, and we shall all be very

happy together, I'm sure.... Princess Naïa said we were not to wait.

Tell me how to fix your tea."

He explained. About to begin on a buttered croissant, he desisted

abruptly and rose to receive the Princess, who entered with the light,

springy step characteristic of her, gowned in one of those Parisian

afternoon creations which never are seen outside that capital, and

never will be.

"Far too charming to be real," commented Neeland. "You are a pretty

fairy story, Princess Naïa, and your gown is a miracle tale which

never was true."

He had not dared any such flippancy with Rue Carew, and the girl, who

knew she was exquisitely gowned, felt an odd little pang in her heart

as this young man's praise of the Princess Mistchenka fell so easily

and gaily from his lips. He might have noticed her gown, as it had

been chosen with many doubts, much hesitation, and anxious

consideration, for him.