Chambers Robert William
The Dark Star

“All German cafés are watched. Otherwise, it is not suspected.”

Sengoun, who had been listening, shook his head. “There’s nothing to interest us at the Café des Bulgars,” he said. Then he summoned a waiter and pointed tragically at the empty goblets.

CHAPTER XXXI
THE CAFÉ DES BULGARS

Their adieux to Fifi and Nini were elaborate and complicated by bursts of laughter. The Tziganes recommended Captain Sengoun to go home and seek further adventures on his pillow; and had it not been for the gay babble of the fountain and the persistent perfume of flowers, he might have followed their advice.

It was after the two young men had left the Jardin Russe that Captain Sengoun positively but affectionately refused to relinquish possession of Neeland’s arm.

“Dear friend,” he explained, “I am just waking up and I do not wish to go to bed for days and days.”

“But I do,” returned Neeland, laughing. “Where do you want to go now, Prince Erlik?”

The champagne was singing loudly in the Cossack’s handsome head; the distant brilliancy beyond the Place de la Concorde riveted his roving eyes.

“Over there,” he said joyously. “Listen, old fellow, I’ll teach you the skating step as we cross the Place! Then, in the first Bal, you shall try it on the fairest form since Helen fell and Troy burned – or Troy fell and Helen burned – it’s all the same, old fellow – what you call fifty-fifty, eh?”

Neeland tried to free his arm – to excuse himself; two policemen laughed; but Sengoun, linking his arm more firmly in Neeland’s, crossed the Place in a series of Dutch rolls and outer edges, in which Neeland was compelled to join. The Russian was as light and graceful on his feet as one of the dancers of his own country; Neeland’s knowledge of skating aided his own less agile steps. There was sympathetic applause from passing taxis and fiacres; and they might, apparently, have had any number of fair partners for the asking, along the way, except for Sengoun’s headlong dive toward the brightest of the boulevard lights beyond.

In the rue Royal, however, Sengoun desisted with sudden access of dignity, remarking that such gambols were not worthy of the best traditions of his Embassy; and he attempted to bribe the drivers of a couple of hansom cabs to permit him and his comrade to take the reins and race to the Arc de Triomphe.

Failing in this, he became profusely autobiographical, informing Neeland of his birth, education, aims, aspirations.

“When I was twelve,” he said, “I had known already the happiness of the battle-shock against Kurd, Mongol, and Tartar. At eighteen my ambition was to slap the faces of three human monsters. I told everybody that I was making arrangements to do this, and I started for Brusa after my first monster – Fehim Effendi – but the Vali telegraphed to the Grand Vizier, and the Grand Vizier ran to Abdul the Damned, and Abdul yelled for Sir Nicholas O’Connor; and they caught me in the Pera Palace and handed me over to my Embassy.”

Neeland shouted with laughter:

“Who were the other monsters?” he asked.

“The other two whose countenances I desired to slap? Oh, one was Abdul Houda, the Sultan’s star-reader, who chattered about my Dark Star horoscope in the Yildiz. And the other was the Sultan.”

“Who?”

“Abdul Hamid.”

“What? You wished to slap his face?”

“Certainly. But Kutchuk Saïd and Kiamil Pasha requested me not to – accompanied by gendarmes.”

“You’d have lost your life,” remarked Neeland.

“Yes. But then war would surely have come, and today my Emperor would have held the Dardanelles where the Turkish flag is now flying over German guns and German gunners.”

He shook his head:

“Great mistake on my part,” he muttered. “Should have pulled Abdul’s lop ears. Now, everything in Turkey is ‘Yasak’ except what Germans do and say; and God knows we are farther than ever from St. Sophia… I’m very thirsty with thinking so much, old fellow. Did you ever drink German champagne?”

“I believe not–”

“Come on, then. You shall drink several gallons and never feel it. It’s the only thing German I could ever swallow.”

“Prince Erlik, you have had considerable refreshment already.”

“Copain, t’en fais pas!”

The spectacle of two young fellows in evening dress, in a friendly tug-of-war under the lamp-posts of the Boulevard, amused the passing populace; and Sengoun, noticing this, was inclined to mount a boulevard bench and address the wayfarers, but Neeland pulled him down and persuaded him into a quieter street, the rue Vilna.

“There’s a German place, now!” exclaimed Sengoun, delighted.

And Neeland, turning to look, perceived the illuminated sign of the Café des Bulgars.

German champagne had now become Sengoun’s fixed idea; nothing could dissuade him from it, nothing persuade him into a homeward bound taxi. So Neeland, with a rather hazy idea that he ought not to do it, entered the café with Senguon; and they seated themselves on a leather wall-lounge before one of the numerous marble-topped tables.

“Listen,” he said in a low voice to his companion, “this is a German café, and we must be careful what we say. I’m not any too prudent and I may forget this; but don’t you!”

“Quite right, old fellow!” replied Sengoun, giving him an owlish look. “I must never forget I’m a diplomat among these sales Boches–”

“Be careful, Sengoun! That expression is not diplomatic.”

“Careful is the word, mon vieux,” returned the other loudly and cheerfully. “I’ll bet you a dollar, three kopeks, and two sous that I go over there and kiss the cashier–”

“No! Be a real diplomat, Sengoun!”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Neeland, because she’s unusually pretty. And we might establish a triple entente until you find some Argive Helen to quadruple it. Aha! Here is our German champagne! Positively the only thing German a Russian can–”

“Listen! This won’t do. People are looking at us–”

“Right, old fellow – always right! You know, Neeland, this friendship of ours is the most precious, most delightful, and most inspiring experience of my life. Here’s a full goblet to our friendship! Hurrah! As for Enver Pasha, may Erlik seize him!”

After they had honoured the toast, Sengoun looked about him pleasantly, receptive, ready for any eventuality. And observing no symptoms of any eventuality whatever, he suggested creating one.

“Dear comrade,” he said, “I think I shall arise and make an incendiary address–”

“No!”

“Very well, if you feel that way about it. But there is another way to render the evening agreeable. You see that sideboard?” he continued, pointing to a huge carved buffet piled to the ceiling with porcelain and crystal. “What will you wager that I can not push it over with one hand?”

But Neeland declined the wager with an impatient gesture, and kept his eyes riveted on a man who had just entered the café. He could see only the stranger’s well-groomed back, but when, a moment later, the man turned to seat himself, Neeland was not surprised to find himself looking at Doc Curfoot.

“Sengoun,” he said under his breath, “that type who just came in is an American gambler named Doc Curfoot; and he is here with other gamblers for the purpose of obtaining political information for some government other than my own.”

Sengoun regarded the new arrival with amiable curiosity:

“That worm? Oh, well, every city in Europe swarms with such maggots, you know. It would be quite funny if he tries any blandishments on us, wouldn’t it?”

“He may. He’s a capper. He’s looking at us now. I believe he remembers having seen me in the train.”

“As for an hour or two at chemin-de-fer, baccarat, or roulette,” remarked Sengoun, “I am not averse to a–”

“Watch him! The waiter who is taking his order may know who you are – may be telling that gambler… I believe he did! Now, let us see what happens…”

Sengoun, delighted at the prospect of an eventuality, blandly emptied his goblet and smiled generally upon everybody.

“I hope he will make our acquaintance and ask us to play,” he said. “I’m very lucky at chemin-de-fer. And if I lose I shall conclude that there is trickery. Which would make it very lively for everybody,” he added with a boyish smile. But his dark eyes began to glitter and he showed his beautiful, even teeth when he laughed.

“Ha!” he said. “A little what you call a mix-up might not come amiss! That gives one an appetite; that permits one to perspire; that does good to everybody and makes one sleep soundly! Shall we, as you say in America, start something?”

Neeland, thinking of Ali-Baba and Golden Beard and of their undoubted instigation by telegraph of the morning’s robbery, wondered whether the rendezvous of the robbers might not possibly be here in the Café des Bulgars.

The gang of Americans in the train had named Kestner, Breslau, and Weishelm – the one man of the gang whom he had never seen – as prospective partners in this enterprise.

Here, somewhere in this building, were their gambling headquarters. Was there any possible chance that the stolen box and its contents might have been brought here for temporary safety?

Might it not now be hidden somewhere in this very building by men too cunning to risk leaving the city when every train and every road would be watched within an hour of the time that the robbery was committed?

Leaning back carelessly on the lounge and keeping his eyes on the people in the café, Neeland imparted these ideas to Sengoun in a low voice – told him everything he knew in regard to the affair, and asked his opinion.

“My opinion,” said Sengoun, who was enchanted at any prospect of trouble, “is that this house is ‘suspect’ and is worth searching. Of course the Prefect could be notified, arrangements made, and a search by the secret police managed. But, Neeland, my friend, think of what pleasure we should be deprived!”

“How do you mean?”

“Why not search the place ourselves?”

“How?”

“Well, of course, we could be picturesque, go to my Embassy, and fill our pockets with automatic pistols, and come back here and – well, make them stand around and see how high they could reach with both hands.”

Neeland laughed.

“That would be a funny jest, wouldn’t it?” said Sengoun.

“Very funny. But–” He nudged Sengoun and directed his attention toward the terrace outside, where waiters were already removing the little iron tables and the chairs, and the few lingering guests were coming inside the café.

“I see,” muttered Sengoun; “it is already Sunday morning, and they’re closing. It’s too late to go to the Embassy. They’d not let us in here when we returned.”

Neeland summoned a waiter with a nod:

“When do you close up inside here?”

“Tomorrow being Sunday, the terrace closes now, monsieur; but the café remains open all night,” explained the waiter with a noticeable German accent.

“Thank you.” And, to Sengoun: “I’d certainly like to go upstairs. I’d like to see what it looks like up there – take a glance around.”

“Very well, let us go up–”

“We ought to have some excuse–”

“We’ll think of several on the way,” rising with alacrity, but Neeland pulled him back.

“Wait a moment! It would only mean a fight–”

“All fights,” explained Sengoun seriously, “are agreeable – some more so. So if you are ready, dear comrade–”

“But a row will do us no good–”

“Pardon, dear friend, I have been in serious need of one for an hour or two–”

“I don’t mean that sort of ‘good,’” explained Neeland, laughing. “I mean that I wish to look about up there – explore–”

“Quite right, old fellow – always right! But – here’s an idea! I could stand at the head of the stairs and throw them down as they mounted, while you had leisure to look around for your stolen box–”

“My dear Prince Erlik, we’ve nothing to shoot with, and it’s likely they have. There’s only one way to get upstairs with any chance of learning anything useful. And that is to start a row between ourselves.” And, raising his voice as though irritated, he called for the reckoning, adding in a tone perfectly audible to anybody in the vicinity that he knew where roulette was played, and that he was going whether or not his friend accompanied him.

Sengoun, delighted, recognised his cue and protested in loud, nasal tones that the house to which his comrade referred was suspected of unfair play; and a noisy dispute began, listened to attentively by the pretty but brightly painted cashier, the waiters, the gérant, and every guest in the neighbourhood.

“As for me,” cried Sengoun, feigning to lose his temper, “I have no intention of being tricked. I was not born yesterday – not I! If there is to be found an honest wheel in Paris that would suit me. Otherwise, I go home to bed!”

“It is an honest wheel, I tell you–”

“It is not! I know that place!”

“Be reasonable–”

“Reasonable!” repeated Sengoun appealingly to the people around them. “Permit me to ask these unusually intelligent gentlemen whether it is reasonable to play roulette in a place where the wheel is notoriously controlled and the management a dishonest one! Could a gentleman be expected to frequent or even to countenance places of evil repute? Messieurs, I await your verdict!” And he folded his arms dramatically.

Somebody said, from a neighbouring table:

“Vous avez parfaitement raison, monsieur!”

“I thank you,” cried Sengoun, with an admirably dramatic bow. “Therefore, I shall now go home to bed!”

Neeland, maintaining his gravity with difficulty, followed Sengoun toward the door, still pretending to plead with him; and the gérant, a tall, blond, rosy and unmistakable German, stepped forward to unlock the door.

As he laid his hand on the bolt he said in a whisper:

“If the gentlemen desire the privilege of an exclusive club where everything is unquestionably conducted–”

“Where?” demanded Neeland, abruptly.

“On the third floor, monsieur.”

“Here?”

“Certainly, sir. If the gentlemen will honour me with their names, and will be seated for one little moment, I shall see what can be accomplished.”

“Very well,” said Sengoun, with a short, incredulous laugh. “I’m Prince Erlik, of the Mongol Embassy, and my comrade is Mr. Neeland, Consul General of the United States of America in the Grand Duchy of Gerolstein!”

The gérant smiled. After he had gone away toward the further room in the café, Neeland remarked to Sengoun that doubtless their real names were perfectly well known, and Sengoun disdainfully shrugged his indifference:

“What can one expect in this dirty rat-nest of Europe? Abdul the Damned employed one hundred thousand spies in Constantinople alone! And William the Sudden admired him. Why, Neeland, mon ami, I never take a step in the streets without being absolutely certain that I am watched and followed. What do I care! Except that towns make me sick. But the only cure is a Khirgiz horse and a thousand lances. God send them. I’m sick of cities.”

A few moments later the gérant returned and, in a low voice, requested them to accompany him.

They passed leisurely through the café, between tables where lowered eyes seemed to deny any curiosity; but guests and waiters looked after them after they had passed, and here and there people whispered together – particularly two men who had followed them from the sun-dial fountain in the rue Soleil d’Or to the Jardin Russe, across the Place de la Concorde, and into the Café des Bulgars in the rue Vilna.

On the stairs Neeland heard Sengoun still muttering to himself:

“Certainly I am sick of cities and narrow strips of sky. What I need is a thousand lances at a gallop, and a little Kirghiz horse between my knees.”

CHAPTER XXXII
THE CERCLE EXTRANATIONALE

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.

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?”

“Oh,” he said, “not everyone.”

“No; some lie naturally and without pay,” she admitted indifferently.

“But there are still others. For example, mademoiselle, yourself.”

“I?” She laughed, not troubling to refute the suggestion of her possible truthfulness.

He said:

“This – club – is furnished in excellent taste.”

“Yes; it is quite new.”

“Has it a name?”

“I believe it is called the Cercle Extranationale. Would monsieur also like to know the name of the club cat?”

They both laughed easily, but he could make nothing of her.

“Thank you,” he said; “and I fear I have interrupted your reading–”

“I have read enough lies; I am quite ready to tell you a few. Shall I?”

“You are most amiable. I have been wondering what the other floors in this building are used for.”

“Private apartments,” she replied smiling, looking him straight in the eyes. “Now you don’t know whether I’ve told you the truth or not; do you?”

“Of course I know.”

“Which, then?”

“The truth.”

She laughed and indicated a chair; and he seated himself.

“Who is the dark, nice-looking gentleman accompanying you?” she enquired.

“How could you see him at all through your newspaper?”

“I poked a hole, of course.”

“To look at him or at me?”

“Your mirror ought to reassure you. However, as an afterthought, who is he?”

“Prince Erlik, of Mongolia,” replied Neeland solemnly.

“I supposed so. We of the infernal aristocracy belong together. I am the Contessa Diabletta d’Enfer.”

He inclined gravely:

“I’m afraid I don’t belong here,” he said. “I’m only a Yankee.”

“Hell is full of them,” she said, smiling. “All Yankees belong where Prince Erlik and I are at home… Do you play?”

“No. Do you?”

“It depends on chance.”

“It would give me much pleasure–”

“Thank you, not tonight.” And in the same, level, pleasant voice: “Don’t look immediately, but from where you sit you can see in the mirror opposite two women seated in the next room.”

After a moment he nodded.

“Are they watching us?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Neeland?”

He reddened with surprise.

“Get Captain Sengoun and leave,” she said, still smiling. “Do it carelessly, convincingly. Neither of you needs courage; both of you lack common sense. Get up, take leave of me nicely but regretfully, as though I had denied you a rendezvous. You will be killed if you remain here.”

For a moment Neeland hesitated, but curiosity won:

“Who is likely to try anything of that sort?” he asked. And a tingling sensation, not wholly unpleasant, passed over him.

“Almost anyone here, if you are recognised,” she said, as gaily as though she were imparting delightful information.

“But you recognise us. And I’m certainly not dead yet.”

“Which ought to tell you more about me than I am likely to tell anybody. Now, when I smile at you and shake my head, make your adieux to me, find Captain Sengoun, and take your departure. Do you understand?”

“Are you really serious?”

“It is you who should be serious. Now, I give you your signal, Monsieur Neeland–”

But the smile stiffened on her pretty face, and at the same moment he was aware that somebody had entered the room and was standing directly behind him.

He turned on his chair and looked up into the face of Ilse Dumont.

There was a second’s hesitation, then he was on his feet, greeting her cordially, apparently entirely at ease and with nothing on his mind except the agreeable surprise of the encounter.

“I had your note,” he said. “It was charming of you to write, but very neglectful of you not to include your address. Tell me, how have you been since I last saw you?”

Ilse Dumont’s red lips seemed to be dry, for she moistened them without speaking. In her eyes he saw peril – knowledge of something terrible – some instant menace.

Then her eyes, charged with lightning, slowly turned from him to the girl on the sofa who had not moved. But in her eyes, too, a little flame began to flicker and play, and the fixed smile relaxed into an expression of cool self-possession.

Neeland’s pleasant, careless voice broke the occult tension:

“This is a pretty club,” he said; “everything here is in such excellent taste. You might have told me about it,” he added to Ilse with smiling reproach; “but you never even mentioned it, and I discovered it quite by accident.”

Ilse Dumont seemed to find her voice with an effort:

“May I have a word with you, Mr. Neeland?” she asked.

“Always,” he assured her promptly. “I am always more than happy to listen to you–”

“Please follow me!”

He turned to the girl on the sofa and made his adieux with conventional ceremony and a reckless smile which said:

“You were quite right, mademoiselle; I’m in trouble already.”

Then he followed Ilse Dumont into the adjoining room, which was lined with filled bookcases and where the lounges and deep chairs were covered with leather.

Halting by the library table, Ilse Dumont turned to him – turned on him a look such as he never before had encountered in any living woman’s eyes – a dead gaze, dreadful, glazed, as impersonal as the fixed regard of a corpse.

She said:

“I came… They sent for me… I did not believe they had the right man… I could not believe it, Neeland.”

A trifle shaken, he said in tones which sounded steady enough:

“What frightens you so, Scheherazade?”

“Why did you come? Are you absolutely mad?”

“Mad? No, I don’t think so,” he replied with a forced smile. “What threatens me here, Scheherazade?” – regarding her pallid face attentively.

“Death… You must have known it when you came.”

“Death? No, I didn’t know it.”

“Did you suppose that if they could get hold of you they’d let you go? – A man who might carry in his memory the plans for which they tried to kill you? I wrote to you – I wrote to you to go back to America! And —this is what you have done instead!”

“Well,” he said in a pleasant but rather serious voice, “if you really believe there is danger for me if I remain here, perhaps I’d better go.”

“You can’t go!”

“You think I’ll be stopped?”

“Yes. Who is your crazy companion? I heard that he is Alak Sengoun – the headlong fool – they call Prince Erlik. Is it true?”

“Where did you hear all these things?” he demanded. “Where were you when you heard them?”

“At the Turkish Embassy. Word came that they had caught you. I did not believe it; others present doubted it… But as the rumour concerned you, I took no chances; I came instantly. I – I had rather be dead than see you here–” Her voice became unsteady, but she controlled it at once:

“Neeland! Neeland! Why did you come? Why have you undone all I tried to do for you–?”

He looked intently at Ilse Dumont, then his gaze swept the handsome suite of rooms. No one seemed to notice him; in perspective, men moved leisurely about the further salon, where play was going on; and there seemed to be no one else in sight. And, as he stood there, free, in full pride and vigour of youth and strength, he became incredulous that anything could threaten him which he could not take care of.

A smile grew in his eyes, confident, humorous, a little hint of tenderness in it:

“Scheherazade,” he said, “you are a dear. You pulled me out of a dreadful mess on the Volhynia. I offer you gratitude, respect, and the very warm regard for you which I really cherish in my heart.”

He took her hands, kissed them, looked up half laughing, half in earnest.

“If you’re worried,” he said, “I’ll find Captain Sengoun and we’ll depart–”

She retained his hands in a convulsive clasp:

“Oh, Neeland! Neeland! There are men below who will never let you pass! And Breslau and Kestner are coming here later. And that devil, Damat Mahmud Bey!”

“Golden Beard and Ali Baba and the whole Arabian Nights!” exclaimed Neeland. “Who is Damat Mahmud Bey, Scheherazade dear?”

“The shadow of Abdul Hamid.”

“Yes, dear child, but Abdul the Damned is shut up tight in a fortress!”

“His shadow dogs the spurred heels of Enver Pasha,” she said, striving to maintain her composure. “Oh, Neeland! – A hundred thousand Armenians are yet to die in that accursed shadow! And do you think Mahmud Damat will hesitate in regard to you!”

“Nonsense! Does a murderous Moslem go about Paris killing people he doesn’t happen to fancy? Those things aren’t done–”

“Have you and Sengoun any weapons at all?” she interrupted desperately, “Anything! – A sword cane–?”

“No. What the devil does all this business mean?” he broke out impatiently. “What’s all this menace of lawlessness – this impudent threat of interference–”

“It is war!”

“War?” he repeated, not quite understanding her.

She caught him by the arm:

“War!” she whispered; “War! Do you understand? They don’t care what they do now! They mean to kill you here in this place. They’ll be out of France before anybody finds you.”

“Has war actually been declared?” he asked, astounded.

“Tomorrow! It is known in certain circles!” She dropped his arm and clasped her hands and stood there twisting them, white, desperate, looking about her like a hunted thing.

“Why did you do this?” she repeated in an agonised voice. “What can I do? I’m no traitor!.. But I’d give you a pistol if I had one–” She checked herself as the girl who had been reading an evening newspaper on a sofa, and to whom Neeland had been talking when Ilse Dumont entered, came sauntering into the room.

The eyes of both women met; both turned a trifle paler. Then Ilse Dumont walked slowly up to the other:

“I overheard your warning,” she said with a deadly stare.

“Really?”

Ilse stretched out her bare arm, palm upward, and closed the fingers tightly:

“I hold your life in my hand. I have only to speak. Do you understand?”