THE DROP OF IRISH
The usual signs of land greeted Neeland when he rose early next
morning and went out on deck for the first time without his olive-wood
box--first a few gulls, then puffins, terns, and other sea fowl in
increasing numbers, weed floating, fishing smacks, trawlers tossing on
the rougher coast waters.
After breakfast he noticed two British torpedo boat destroyers, one to
starboard, the other on the port bow, apparently keeping pace with the
_Volhynia_. They were still there at noon, subjects of speculation
among the passengers; and at tea-time their number was increased to
five, the three new destroyers appearing suddenly out of nowhere, dead
ahead, dashing forward through a lively sea under a swirling vortex of
gulls.
The curiosity of the passengers, always easily aroused, became more
thoroughly stirred up by the bulletins posted late that afternoon,
indicating that the tension between the several European chancelleries
was becoming acute, and that emperors and kings were exchanging
personal telegrams.
There was all sorts of talk on deck and at the dinner table, wild
talk, speculative talk, imaginative discussions, logical and
illogical. But, boiled down to its basic ingredients, the wildest
imagination on board the _Volhynia_ admitted war to be an
impossibility of modern times, and that, ultimately, diplomacy would
settle what certainly appeared to be the ugliest international
situation in a hundred years.
At the bottom of his heart Neeland believed this, too; wished for it
when his higher and more educated spiritual self was flatly
interrogated; and yet, in the everyday, impulsive ego of James
Neeland, the drop of Irish had begun to sing and seethe with the
atavistic instinct for a row.
War? He didn't know what it meant, of course. It made good poetry and
interesting fiction; it rendered history amusing; made dry facts
succulent.
Preparations for war in Europe, which had been going on for fifty
years, were most valuable, too, in contributing the brilliant hues of
uniforms to an otherwise sombre civilian world, and investing
commonplace and sober cities with the omnipresent looming mystery of
fortifications.
To a painter, war seemed to be a dramatic and gorgeous affair; to a
young man it appealed as all excitement appeals. The sportsman in him
desired to witness a scrap; his artist's imagination was aroused; the
gambler in him speculated as to the outcome of such a war. And the
seething, surging drop of Irish fizzed and purred and coaxed for a
chance to edge sideways into any fight which God in His mercy might
provide for a decent gossoon who had never yet had the pleasure of a
broken head.
"Not," thought Neeland to himself, "that I'll go trailing my coat
tails. I'll go about my own business, of course--but somebody may hit
me a crack at that!"
He thought of Ilse Dumont and of the man with the golden beard,
realising that he had had a wonderful time, after all; sorry in his
heart that it was all over and that the _Volhynia_ was due to let go
her mudhooks in the Mersey about three o'clock the next morning.
As he leaned on the deck rail in the soft July darkness, he could see
the lights of the destroyers to port and starboard, see strings of
jewel-like signals flash, twinkle, fade, and flash again.
All around him along the deck passengers were promenading, girls in
evening gowns or in summer white; men in evening dress or reefed in
blue as nautically as possible; old ladies toddling, swathed in veils,
old gentlemen in dinner coats and sporting headgear--every weird or
conventional combination infested the decks of the _Volhynia_.
Now, for the first time during the voyage, Neeland felt free to lounge
about where he listed, saunter wherever the whim of the moment
directed his casual steps. The safety of the olive-wood box was no
longer on his mind, the handle no longer in his physical clutch. He
was at liberty to stroll as carelessly as any boulevard _flâneur_; and
he did so, scanning the passing throng for a glimpse of Ilse Dumont or
of the golden-bearded one, but not seeing either of them.
In fact, he had not laid eyes on them since he had supped not wisely
but too well on the soup that Scheherazade had flavoured for him.
The stateroom door of the golden-bearded man had remained closed. His
own little cockney steward, who also looked out for Golden Beard,
reported that gentleman as requiring five meals a day, with beer in
proportion, and the porcelain pipe steaming like Ætna all day long.
His little West Indian stewardess also reported the gossip from her
friend on another corridor, which was, in effect, that Miss White, the
trained nurse, took all meals in her room and had not been observed
to leave that somewhat monotonous sanctuary.
How many more of the band there might be Neeland did not know. He
remembered vaguely, while lying rigid under the grip of the drug, that
he had heard Ilse Dumont's voice mention somebody called Karl. And he
had an idea that this Karl might easily be the big, ham-fisted German
who had tried so earnestly to stifle him and throw him from the
vestibule of the midnight express.
However, it did not matter now. The box was safe in the captain's
care; the _Volhynia_ would be lying at anchor off Liverpool before
daylight; the whole exciting and romantic business was ended.
With an unconscious sigh, not entirely of relief, Neeland opened his
cigarette case, found it empty, turned and went slowly below with the
idea of refilling it.
They were dancing somewhere on deck; the music of the ship's orchestra
came to his ears. He paused a moment on the next deck to lean on the
rail in the darkness and listen.
Far beneath him, through a sea as black as onyx, swept the reflections
of the lighted ports; and he could hear the faint hiss of foam from
the curling flow below.
As he turned to resume his quest for cigarettes, he was startled to
see directly in front of him the heavy figure of a man--so close to
him, in fact, that Neeland instinctively threw up his arm, elbow out,
to avoid contact.
But the man, halting, merely lifted his hat, saying that in the dim
light he had mistaken Neeland for a friend; and they passed each other
on the almost deserted deck, saluting formally in the European
fashion, with lifted hats.
His spirits a trifle subdued, but still tingling with the shock of
discovering a stranger so close behind him where he had stood leaning
over the ship's rail, Neeland continued on his way below.
Probably the big man had made a mistake in good faith; but the man
certainly had approached very silently; was almost at his very elbow
when discovered. And Neeland remembered the light-shot depths over
which, at that moment, he had been leaning; and he realised that it
would have been very easy for a man as big as that to have flung him
overboard before he had wit to realise what had been done to him.
Neither could he forget the curious gleam in the stranger's eyes when
a ray from a deck light fell across his shadowy face--unusually small
eyes set a little too close together to inspire confidence. Nor had
the man's slight accent escaped him--not a Teutonic accent, he
thought, but something fuller and softer--something that originated
east of Scutari, suggesting the Eurasian, perhaps.
But Neeland's soberness was of volatile quality; before he arrived at
his stateroom he had recovered his gaiety of spirit. He glanced
ironically at the closed door of Golden Beard as he fitted his key
into his own door.
"A lively lot," he thought to himself, "what with Scheherazade, Golden
Beard, and now Ali Baba--by jinx!--he certainly did have an Oriental
voice!--and he looked the part, too, with a beak for a nose and a
black moustache à la Enver Pasha!"
Much diverted by his own waxing imagination, he turned on the light
in his stateroom, filled the cigarette case, turned to go out, and saw
on the carpet just inside his door a bit of white paper folded
cocked-hat fashion and addressed to him.
Picking it up and unfolding it, he read:
* * * * *
May I see you this evening at eleven? My stateroom is 623. If there is
anybody in the corridor, knock; if not, come in without knocking.
I mean no harm to you. I give my word of honour. Please accept it for
as much as your personal courage makes it worth to you--its face
value, or nothing.
Knowing you, I may say without flattery that I expect you. If I am
disappointed, I still must bear witness to your courage and to a
generosity not characteristic of your sex.
You have had both power and provocation to make my voyage on this ship
embarrassing. You have not done so. And self-restraint in a man is a
very deadly weapon to use on a woman.
I hope you will come. I desire to be generous on my part. Ask yourself
whether you are able to believe this. You don't know women, Mr.
Neeland. Your conclusion probably will be a wrong one.
But I think you'll come, all the same. And you will be right in
coming, whatever you believe.
Ilse Dumont.
* * * * *
It was a foregone conclusion that he would go. He knew it before he
had read half the note. And when he finished it he was certain.
Amused, his curiosity excited, grateful that the adventure had not yet
entirely ended, he lighted a cigarette and looked impatiently at his
watch.
It lacked half an hour of the appointed time and his exhilaration was
steadily increasing.
He stuck the note into the frame of his mirror over the washstand with
a vague idea that if anything happened to him this would furnish a
clue to his whereabouts.
Then he thought of the steward, but, although he had no reason to
believe the girl who had written him, something within him made him
ashamed to notify the steward as to where he was going. He ought to
have done it; common prudence born of experience with Ilse Dumont
suggested it. And yet he could not bring himself to do it; and exactly
why, he did not understand.
One thing, however, he could do; and he did. He wrote a note to
Captain West giving the Paris address of the Princess Mistchenka, and
asked that the olive-wood box be delivered to her in case any accident
befell him. This note he dropped into the mailbox at the end of the
main corridor as he went out. A few minutes later he stood in an empty
passageway outside a door numbered 623. He had a loaded automatic in
his breast pocket, a cigarette between his fingers, and, on his
agreeable features, a smile of anticipation--a smile in which
amusement, incredulity, reckless humour, and a spice of malice were
blended--the smile born of the drop of Irish sparkling like champagne
in his singing veins.
And he turned the knob of door No. 623 and went in.
She was reading, curled up on her sofa under the electric bulb, a
cigarette in one hand, a box of bonbons beside her.
She looked up leisurely as he entered, gave him a friendly nod, and,
when he held out his hand, placed her own in it. With delighted
gravity he bent and saluted her finger tips with lips that twitched to
control a smile.
"Will you be seated, please?" she said gently.
The softness of her agreeable voice struck him as he looked around
for a seat, then directly at her; and saw that she meant him to find a
seat on the lounge beside her.
"Now, indeed you are Scheherazade of the Thousand and One Nights," he
said gaily, "with your cigarette and your bonbons, and cross-legged on
your divan----"
"Did Scheherazade smoke cigarettes, Mr. Neeland?"
"No," he admitted; "that is an anachronism, I suppose. Tell me, how
are you, dear lady?"
"Thank you, quite well."
"And--busy?" His lips struggled again to maintain their gravity.
"Yes, I have been busy."
"Cooking something up?--I mean soup, of course," he added.
She forced a smile, but reddened as though it were difficult for her
to accustom herself to his half jesting sarcasms.
"So you've been busy," he resumed tormentingly, "but not with cooking
lessons! Perhaps you've been practising with your pretty little
pistol. You know you really need a bit of small arms practice,
Scheherazade."
"Because I once missed you?" she inquired serenely.
"Why so you did, didn't you?" he exclaimed, delighted to goad her into
replying.
"Yes," she said, "I missed you. I needn't have. I am really a dead
shot, Mr. Neeland."
"Oh, Scheherazade!" he protested.
She shrugged:
"I am not bragging; I could have killed you. I supposed it was
necessary only to frighten you. It was my mistake and a bad one."
"My dear child," he expostulated, "you meant murder and you know it.
Do you suppose I believe that you know how to shoot?"
"But I do, Mr. Neeland," she returned with good-humoured indifference.
"My father was head _jäger_ to Count Geier von Sturmspitz, and I was
already a dead shot with a rifle when we emigrated to Canada. And when
he became an Athabasca trader, and I was only twelve years old, I
could set a moose-hide shoe-lace swinging and cut it in two with a
revolver at thirty yards. And I can drive a shingle nail at that
distance and drive the bullet that drove it, and the next and the
next, until my revolver is empty. You don't believe me, do you?"
"You know that the beautiful Scheherazade----"
"Was famous for her fantastic stories? Yes, I know that, Mr. Neeland.
I'm sorry you don't believe I fired only to frighten you."
"I'm sorry I don't," he admitted, laughing, "but I'll practise trying,
and maybe I shall attain perfect credulity some day. Tell me," he
added, "what _have_ you been doing to amuse yourself?"
"I've been amusing myself by wondering whether you would come here to
see me tonight."
"But your note said you were sure I'd come."
"You _have_ come, haven't you?"
"Yes, Scheherazade, I'm here at your bidding, spirit and flesh. But I
forgot to bring one thing."
"What?"
"The box which--you have promised yourself."
"Yes, the captain has it, I believe," she returned serenely.
"Oh, Lord! Have you even found out _that_? I don't know whether I'm
much flattered by this surveillance you and your friends maintain
over me. I suppose you even know what I had for dinner. Do you?"
"Yes."
"Come, I'll call that bluff, dear lady! What did I have?"
When she told him, carelessly, and without humour, mentioning
accurately every detail of his dinner, he lost his gaiety of
countenance a little.
"Oh, I say, you know," he protested, "that's going it a trifle too
strong. Now, why the devil should your people keep tabs on me to that
extent?"
She looked up directly into his eyes:
"Mr. Neeland, I want to tell you why. I asked you here so that I may
tell you. The people associated with me are absolutely pledged that
neither the French nor the British Government shall have access to the
contents of your box. That is why nothing that you do escapes our
scrutiny. We are determined to have the papers in that box, and we
shall have them."
"You have come to that determination too late," he began; but she
stopped him with a slight gesture of protest:
"Please don't interrupt me, Mr. Neeland."
"I won't; go on, dear lady!"
"Then, I'm trying to tell you all I may. I am trying to tell you
enough of the truth to make you reflect very seriously.
"This is no ordinary private matter, no vulgar attempt at robbery and
crime as you think--or pretend to think--for you are very intelligent,
Mr. Neeland, and you know that the contrary is true.
"This affair concerns the secret police, the embassies, the
chancelleries, the rulers themselves of nations long since grouped
into two formidable alliances radically hostile to one another.
"I don't think you have understood--perhaps even yet you do not
understand why the papers you carry are so important to certain
governments--why it is impossible that you be permitted to deliver
them to the Princess Mistchenka----"
"Where did _you_ ever hear of _her_!" he demanded in astonishment.
The girl smiled:
"Dear Mr. Neeland, I know the Princess Mistchenka better, perhaps,
than you do."
"Do you?"
"Indeed I do. What do you know about her? Nothing at all except that
she is handsome, attractive, cultivated, amusing, and apparently
wealthy.
"You know her as a traveller, a patroness of music and the fine
arts--as a devotee of literature, as a graceful hostess, and an
amiable friend who gives promising young artists letters of
introduction to publishers who are in a position to offer them
employment."
That this girl should know so much about the Princess Mistchenka and
about his own relations with her amazed Neeland. He did not pretend to
account for it; he did not try; he sat silent, serious, and surprised,
looking into the pretty and almost smiling face of a girl who
apparently had been responsible for three separate attempts to kill
him--perhaps even a fourth attempt; and who now sat beside him talking
in a soft and agreeable voice about matters concerning which he had
never dreamed she had heard.
For a few moments she sat silent, observing in his changing expression
the effects of what she had said to him. Then, with a smile:
"Ask me whatever questions you desire to ask, Mr. Neeland. I shall do
my best to answer them."
"Very well," he said bluntly; "how do you happen to know so much about
me?"
"I know something about the friends of the Princess Mistchenka. I have
to."
"Did you know who I was there in the house at Brookhollow?"
"No."
"When, then?"
"When you yourself told me your name, I recognised it."
"I surprised you by interrupting you in Brookhollow?"
"Yes."
"You expected no interruption?"
"None."
"How did you happen to go there? Where did you ever hear of the
olive-wood box?"
"I had advices by cable from abroad--directions to go to Brookhollow
and secure the box."
"Then somebody must be watching the Princess Mistchenka."
"Of course," she said simply.
"Why 'of course'?"
"Mr. Neeland, the Princess Mistchenka and her youthful _protégée_,
Miss Carew----"
"_What!!!_"
The girl smiled wearily:
"Really," she said, "you are such a boy to be mixed in with matters of
this colour. I think that's the reason you have defeated us--the
trained fencer dreads a left-handed novice more than any classic
master of the foils.
"And that is what you have done to us--blundered--if you'll forgive
me--into momentary victory.
"But such victories are only momentary, Mr. Neeland. Please believe
it. Please try to understand, too, that this is no battle with masks
and plastrons and nicely padded buttons. No; it is no comedy, but a
grave and serious affair that must inevitably end in tragedy--for
somebody."
"For me?" he asked without smiling.
She turned on him abruptly and laid one hand lightly on his arm with a
pretty gesture, at once warning, appealing, and protective.
"I asked you to come here," she said, "because--because I want you to
escape the tragedy."
"You want _me_ to escape?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I--am sorry for you."
He said nothing.
"And--I like you, Mr. Neeland."
The avowal in the soft, prettily modulated voice, lost none of its
charm and surprise because the voice was a trifle tremulous, and the
girl's face was tinted with a delicate colour.
"I like to believe what you say, Scheherazade," he said pleasantly.
"Somehow or other I never did think you hated me personally--except
once----"
She flushed, and he was silent, remembering her humiliation in the
Brookhollow house.
"I don't know," she said in a colder tone, "why I should feel at all
friendly toward you, Mr. Neeland, except that you are personally
courageous, and you have shown yourself generous under a severe
temptation to be otherwise.
"As for--any personal humiliation--inflicted upon me----" She looked
down thoughtfully and pretended to sort out a bonbon to her taste,
while the hot colour cooled in her cheeks.
"I know," he said, "I've also jeered at you, jested, nagged you,
taunted you, kiss----" He checked himself and he smiled and
ostentatiously lighted a cigarette.
"Well," he said, blowing a cloud of aromatic smoke toward the ceiling,
"I believe that this is as strange a week as any man ever lived. It's
like a story book--like one of your wonderful stories, Scheherazade.
It doesn't seem real, now that it is ended----"
"_It is not ended_," she interrupted in a low voice.
He smiled.
"You know," he said, "there's no use trying to frighten such an idiot
as I am."
She lifted her troubled eyes:
"That is what frightens _me_," she said. "I am afraid you don't know
enough to be afraid."
He laughed.
"But I want you to be afraid. A really brave man knows what fear is. I
want _you_ to know."
"What do you wish me to do, Scheherazade?"
"Keep away from that box."
"I can't do that."
"Yes, you can. You can leave it in charge of the captain of this ship
and let him see that an attempt is made to deliver it to the Princess
Mistchenka."
She was in deadly earnest; he saw that. And, in spite of himself, a
slight thrill that was almost a chill passed over him, checked
instantly by the hot wave of sheer exhilaration at the hint of actual
danger.
"Oho!" he said gaily. "Then you and your friends are not yet finished
with me?"
"Yes, if you will consider your mission accomplished."
"And leave the rest to the captain of the _Volhynia_?"
"Yes."
"Scheherazade," he said, "did you suppose me to be a coward?"
"No. You have done all that you can. A reserve officer of the British
Navy has the box in his charge. Let him, protected by his Government,
send it toward its destination."
In her even voice the implied menace was the more sinister for her
calmness.
He looked at her, perplexed, and shook his head.
"I ask you," she went on, "to keep out of this affair--to disassociate
yourself from it. I ask it because you have been considerate and
brave, and because I do not wish you harm."
He turned toward her, leaning a little forward on the lounge:
"No use," he said, smiling. "I'm in it until it ends----"
"Let it end then!" said a soft, thick voice directly behind him. And
Neeland turned and found the man he had seen on deck standing beside
him. One of his fat white hands held an automatic pistol, covering
him; the other was carefully closing the door which he had noiselessly
opened to admit him.
"Karl!" exclaimed Ilse Dumont.
"It is safaire that you do not stir, either, to interfere," he said,
squinting for a second at her out of his eyes set too near together.
"Karl!" she cried. "I asked him to come in order to persuade him! I
gave him my word of honour!"
"Did you do so? Then all the bettaire. I think we shall persuade him.
Do not venture to move, young man; I shoot veree willingly."
And Neeland, looking at him along the blunt barrel of the automatic
pistol, was inclined to believe him.
His sensations were not agreeable; he managed to maintain a calm
exterior; choke back the hot chagrin that reddened his face to the
temples; and cast a half humorous, half contemptuous glance at Ilse
Dumont.
"You prove true, don't you?" he said coolly. "--True to your trade of
story-telling, Scheherazade!"
"I knew--nothing--of this!" she stammered.
But Neeland only laughed disagreeably.
Then the door opened again softly, and Golden Beard came in without
his crutches.