The Dark Star

"James," she said abruptly, "we've had a most horrid night, Ruhannah

and I. The child waited up for you, it seems--I thought she'd gone to

bed--and she came to my room about two in the morning--the little

goose--as though men didn't stay out all night!"

"I'm terribly sorry," he said contritely.

"You ought to be.... And Ruhannah was so disturbed that I put on

something and got out of bed. And after a while"--the Princess glanced

sardonically at Ilse Dumont--"I telephoned to various sources of

information and was informed concerning the rather lively episodes of

your nocturnal career with Sengoun. And when I learned that you and he

had been seen to enter the Café des Bulgars, I became sufficiently

alarmed to notify several people who might be interested in the

matter."

"One of those people," said Neeland, smiling, "was escorted to her

home by Captain Sengoun, I think."

The Princess glanced out of the window where the early morning sun

glimmered on the trees as the car flew swiftly through the Champs

Elysées.

"I heard that there were some men killed there last night," she said

without turning.

"Several, I believe," admitted Neeland.

"Were you there, then?"

"Yes," he replied, uncomfortably.

"Did you know anybody who was killed, James?"

"Yes, by sight."

She turned to him: "Who?"

"There was a man named Kestner; another named Weishelm. Three American

gamblers were killed also."

"And Karl Breslau?" inquired the Princess coolly.

There was a moment's silence.

"No. I think he got away across the roofs of the houses," replied

Neeland.

Ilse Dumont, bent over the cat in her lap, stared absently into its

green eyes where it lay playfully patting the rags that hung from her

torn bodice.

Perhaps she was thinking of the dead man where he lay in the crowded

café--the dead man who had confronted her with bloodshot eyes and

lifted pistol--whose voice, thick with rage, had denounced her--whose

stammering, untaught tongue stumbled over the foreign words with which

he meant to send her to her death--this dead man who once had been

her man--long ago--very, very long ago when there was no bitterness

in life, no pain, no treachery--when life was young in the Western

World, and Fate gaily beckoned her, wearing a smiling mask and crowned

with flowers.

"I hope," remarked the Princess Mistchenka, "that it is sufficiently

early in the morning for you to escape observation, James."