The Dark Star

The suite of rooms into which they were ushered appeared to be

furnished in irreproachable taste. Except for the salon at the

further end of the suite, where play was in progress, the charming

apartment might have been a private one; and the homelike simplicity

of the room, where books, flowers, and even a big, grey cat confirmed

the first agreeable impression, accented the lurking smile on

Sengoun's lips.

Doc Curfoot, in evening dress, came forward to receive them, in

company with another man, young, nice-looking, very straight, and with

the high, square shoulders of a Prussian.

"Bong soire, mussoors," said Curfoot genially. "J'ai l'honnoor de

vous faire connaitre mong ami, Mussoor Weishelm."

They exchanged very serious bows with "Mussoor" Weishelm, and Curfoot

retired.

In excellent French Weishelm inquired whether they desired supper; and

learning that they did not, bowed smilingly and bade them welcome:

"You are at home, gentlemen; the house is yours. If it pleases you to

sup, we offer you our hospitality; if you care to play, the salon is

at your disposal, or, if you prefer, a private room. Yonder is the

buffet; there are electric bells at your elbow. You are at home," he

repeated, clicked his heels together, bowed, and took his leave.

Sengoun dropped into a comfortable chair and sent a waiter for caviar,

toast, and German champagne.

Neeland lighted a cigarette, seated himself, and looked about him

curiously.

Over in a corner on a sofa a rather pretty woman, a cigarette between

her jewelled fingers, was reading an evening newspaper. Two others in

the adjoining room, young and attractive, their feet on the fireplace

fender, conversed together over a sandwich, a glass of the widely

advertised Dubonnet, and another of the equally advertised Bon Lait

Maggi--as serenely and as comfortably as though they were by their own

firesides.

"Perhaps they are," remarked Sengoun, plastering an oblong of hot

toast with caviar. "Birds of this kind nest easily anywhere."

Neeland continued to gaze toward the salon where play was in

progress. There did not seem to be many people there. At a small table

he recognised Brandes and Stull playing what appeared to be bridge

whist with two men whom he had never before seen. There were no women

playing.

As he watched the round, expressionless face of Brandes, who was

puffing a long cigar screwed tightly into the corner of his

thin-lipped mouth, it occurred to him somewhat tardily what Rue Carew

had said concerning personal danger to himself if any of these people

believed him capable of reconstructing from memory any of the stolen

plans.