The Dark Star

He had not thought about that specific contingency; instinct alone had

troubled him a little when he first entered the Café des Bulgars.

However, his unquiet eyes could discover nothing of either Kestner or

Breslau; and, somehow, he did not even think of encountering Ilse

Dumont in such a place. As for Brandes and Stull, they did not

recognise him at all.

So, entirely reassured once more by the absence of Ali-Baba and Golden

Beard, and of Scheherazade whom he had no fear of meeting, Neeland ate

his caviar with a relish and examined his surroundings.

Of course it was perfectly possible that the stolen papers had been

brought here. There were three other floors in the building, too, and

he wondered what they were used for.

Sengoun's appetite for conflict waned as he ate and drank; and a

violent desire to gamble replaced it.

"You poke about a bit," he said to Neeland. "Talk to that girl over

there and see what you can learn. As for me, I mean to start a little

flirtation with Mademoiselle Fortuna. Does that suit you?"

If Sengoun wished to play it was none of Neeland's business.

"Do you think it an honest game?" he asked, doubtfully.

"With negligible stakes all first-class gamblers are honest."

"If I were you, Sengoun, I wouldn't drink anything more."

"Excellent advice, old fellow!" emptying his goblet with satisfaction.

And, rising to his firm and graceful height, he strolled away toward

the salon where play progressed amid the most decorous and edifying

of atmospheres.

Neeland watched him disappear, then he glanced curiously at the girl

on the sofa who was still preoccupied with her newspaper.

So he rose, sauntered about the room examining the few pictures and

bronzes, modern but excellent. The carpet under foot was thick and

soft, but, as he strolled past the girl who seemed to be so intently

reading, she looked up over her paper and returned his civil

recognition of her presence with a slight smile.

As he appeared inclined to linger, she said with pleasant

self-possession: "These newspaper rumours, monsieur, are becoming too persistent to

amuse us much longer. War talk is becoming vieux jeu."

"Why read them?" inquired Neeland with a smile.

"Why?" She made a slight gesture. "One reads what is printed, I

suppose."

"Written and printed by people who know no more about the matter in

question than you and I, mademoiselle," he remarked, still smiling.

"That is perfectly true. Why is it worth while for anyone to search

for truth in these days when everyone is paid to conceal it?"