When the train arrived at the Grand Central Station, in the grey of a July morning, Neeland, finding the stateroom empty, lingered to watch for her among the departing pa.s.sengers.

But he lingered in vain; and presently a taxicab took him and his box to the Cunard docks, and deposited him there. And an hour later he was in his cabin on board that vast ensemble of machinery and luxury, the Cunarder _Volhynia_, outward bound, and headed straight at the dazzling disc of the rising sun.

And thought of Scheherazade faded from his mind as a tale that is told.

CHAPTER XVII

A WHITE SKIRT

It was in mid-ocean that Neeland finally came to the conclusion that n.o.body on board the _Volhynia_ was likely to bother him or his box.

The July weather had been magnificent--blue skies, a gentle wind, and a sea scarcely silvered by a comber.

a.s.sorted denizens of the Atlantic took part in the traditional vaudeville performance for the benefit of the _Volhynia_ pa.s.sengers; gulls followed the wake to mid-ocean; Mother Carey's chickens skimmed the baby billows; dolphins turned watery flip-flaps under the bows; and even a distant whale consented to oblige.

Everybody pervaded the decks morning, noon, and evening; the most squeamish recovered confidence in twenty-four hours; and every const.i.tutional lubber concluded he was a born sailor.

Neeland really was one; no nausea born from the bad adjustment of that anatomical auricular gyroscope recently discovered in man ever disturbed his abdominal nerves. Short of shipwreck, he enjoyed any entertainment the Atlantic offered him.

So he was always on deck, tranquilly happy and with nothing in the world to disturb him except his responsibility for the olive-wood box.

He dared not leave it in his locked cabin; he dared not entrust it to anybody; he lugged it about with him wherever he went. On deck it stood beside his steamer chair; it dangled from his hand when he promenaded, exciting the amazement and curiosity of others; it reposed on the floor under the table and beneath his attentive feet when he was at meals.

These elaborate precautions indicated his wholesome respect for the persistence of Scheherazade and her friends; he was forever scanning his fellow-voyagers at table, in the smoking room, and as they strolled to and fro in front of his steamer chair, trying to make up his mind concerning them.

But Neeland, a clever observer of externals, was no reader of character. The pa.s.senger list never seemed to confirm any conclusions he arrived at concerning any of the pa.s.sengers on the _Volhynia_. A gentleman he mistook for an overfed broker turned out to be a popular clergyman with outdoor proclivities; a slim, poetic-looking youth who carried a copy of "Words and Wind" about the deck travelled for the Gold Leaf Lard Company.

Taking them all in all, Neeland concluded that they were as harmless a collection of _reconcentrados_ as he had ever observed; and he was strongly tempted to leave the box in his locked stateroom.

He decided to do so one afternoon after luncheon, and, lugging his box, started to return to his stateroom with that intention, instead of going on deck, as usual, for a postprandial cigarette.

There was n.o.body in the main corridor as he pa.s.sed, but in the short, carpeted pa.s.sage leading to his stateroom he caught a glimpse of a white serge skirt vanishing into the stateroom opposite to his, and heard the door close and the noise of a key turned quickly.

His steward, being questioned on the first day out, had told him that this stateroom was occupied by an invalid gentleman travelling alone, who preferred to remain there instead of trusting to his crutches on a temperamental deck.

Neeland, pa.s.sing the closed and curtained door, wondered whether the invalid had made a hit, or whether he had a relative aboard who wore a white serge skirt, white stockings and shoes, and was further endowed with agreeable ankles.

He fitted his key to his door, turned it, withdrew the key to pocket it; and immediately became aware that the end of the key was sticky.

He entered the stateroom, however, and bolted the door, then he sat down on his sofa and examined his fingers and his door key attentively. There was wax sticking to both.

When he had fully digested this fact he wiped and pocketed his key and cast a rather vacant look around the little stateroom. And immediately his eye was arrested by a white object lying on the carpet between the bed and the sofa--a woman's handkerchief, without crest or initials, but faintly scented.

After he became tired of alternately examining it and sniffing it, he put it in his pocket and began an uneasy tour of his room.

If it had been entered and ransacked, everything had been replaced exactly as he had left it, as well as he could remember. Nothing excepting this handkerchief and the wax on the key indicated intrusion; nothing, apparently, had been disturbed; and yet there was the handkerchief; and there was the wax on the end of his door key.

"Here's a fine business!" he muttered to himself; and rang for his steward.

The man came--a c.o.c.kney, dense as his native fog--who maintained that n.o.body could have entered the stateroom without his knowledge or the knowledge of the stewardess.

"Do you think _she's_ been in my cabin?"

"No, sir."

"Call her."

The stewardess, an alert, intelligent little woman with a trace of West Indian blood in her, denied entering his stateroom. Shown the handkerchief and invited to sniff it, she professed utter ignorance concerning it, a.s.sured him that no lady in her section used that perfume, and offered to show it to the stewardesses of other sections on the chance of their identifying the perfume or the handkerchief.

"All right," said Neeland; "take it. But bring it back. And here's a sovereign. And--one thing more. If anybody pays you to deceive me, come to me and I'll outbid them. Is that a bargain?"

"Yes, sir," she said unblushingly.

When she had gone away with the handkerchief, Neeland closed the door again and said to the steward:

"Keep an eye on my door. I am positive that somebody has taken a wax impression of the keyhole. What I said to that stewardess also holds good with you. I'll outbid anybody who bribes you."

"Very good, sir."

"Sure it's good! It's devilish good. Here's a beautiful and newly minted gold sovereign. Isn't it artistic? It's yours, steward."

"Thanky, sir."

"Not at all. And, by the way, what's that invalid gentleman's name?"

"'Awks, sir."

"Hawks?"

"Yes, sir; Mr. 'Erbert 'Awks."

"American?"

"I don't know, sir."

"British?"

"Shall I inquire, sir?" starting to go.

"Not of _him_! Don't be a lunatic, steward! Please try to understand that I want nothing said about this matter or about my inquiries."

"Yes, sir."

"Very well, then! Find out, if you can, who Mr. Herbert Hawks is. Find out all you can concerning him. It's easy money, isn't it?"