* * * * * Long after the steward had closed the stateroom door, Ilse Dumont
stood beside Neeland's bed without stirring. Once or twice he opened
his eyes and looked at her humorously. After a while he said: "Please be seated, Scheherazade."
She calmly seated herself on the edge of his couch.
"Horrid soup," he murmured. "You should attend a cooking school, my
dear."
She regarded him absently, as though other matters absorbed her.
"Yes," he repeated, "as a cook you're a failure, Scheherazade. That
broth which you seasoned for me has done funny things to my eyes, too.
But they're recovering. I see much better already. My vision is
becoming sufficiently clear to observe how pretty you are in your
nurse's cap and apron."
A slow colour came into her face and he saw her eyebrows bend inward
as though she were annoyed.
"You are pretty, Scheherazade," he repeated. "You know you are,
don't you? But you're a poor cook and a rotten shot. You can't be
perfection, you know. Cheer up!"
She ignored the suggestion, her dark eyes brooding and remote again;
and he lay watching her with placid interest in which no rancour
remained. He was feeling decidedly better every minute now. He lifted
the automatic pistol and shoved it under his pillow, then cautiously
flexed his fingers, his arms, and finally his knees, with increasing
pleasure and content.
"Such dreadful soup," he said. "But I'm a lot better, thank you. Was
it to have been murder this time, too, Scheherazade? Would the entire
cupful have made a pretty angel of me? Oh, fie! Naughty
Scheherazade!"
She remained mute.
"Didn't you mean manslaughter with intent to exterminate?" he
insisted, watching her.
Perhaps she was thinking of her blond and bearded companion, and the
open port, for she made no reply.
"Why didn't you let him heave me out?" inquired Neeland. "Why did you
object?"
At that she reddened to the roots of her hair, understanding that what
she feared had been true--that Neeland, while physically helpless, had
retained sufficient consciousness to be aware of what was happening to
him and to understand at least a part of the conversation.
"What was the stuff with which you flavoured that soup,
Scheherazade?"
He was merely baiting her; he did not expect any reply; but, to his
surprise, she answered him: "Threlanium--Speyer's solution is what I used," she said with a sort
of listless effrontery.
"Don't know it. Don't like it, either. Prefer other condiments."
He lifted himself on one elbow, remained propped so, tore open his
wireless telegram, and, after a while, contrived to read it: * * * * * "James Neeland,
"S. S. Volhynia.
"Spies aboard. Be careful. If trouble threatens captain has
instructions British Government to protect you and order arrests on
your complaint.
"Naïa."
* * * * * With a smile that was almost a grin, Neeland handed the telegram to
Ilse Dumont.