Part 54 (1/2)

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 pa.s.sageway 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 antic.i.p.ation--a smile in which amus.e.m.e.nt, 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 k.n.o.b 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.