pped, Neeland
pushed him off with the flat of his foot.

Drenched in perspiration, dishevelled, bruised, he slammed both traps
and ran back into the dark corridor, and met Ilse Dumont coming out of
his stateroom carrying the olive-wood box.

His appearance appeared to stupefy her; he took the box from her
without resistance, and, pushing her back into the stateroom, locked
the door.

Then, still savagely excited, and the hot blood of battle still
seething in his veins, he stood staring wickedly into her dazed eyes,
the automatic pistol hanging from his right fist.

But after a few moments something in her naive astonishment--her
amazement to see him alive and standing there before her--appealed to
him as intensely ludicrous; he dropped on the edge of the bed and
burst into laughter uncontrolled.

"Scheherazade! Oh, Scheherazade!" he said, weak with laughter, "if you
could only see your face! If you could only _see_ it, my dear child!
It's too funny to be true! It's too funny to be a real face! Oh, dear,
I'll die if I laugh any more. You'll assassinate me with your face!"

She seated herself on the lounge opposite, still gazing blankly at him
in his uncontrollable mirth.

After a while he put back the automatic into his breast pocket, took
off coat and waistcoat, without paying the slightest heed to her or to
convention; opened his own suitcase, selected a fresh shirt, tie, and
collar, and, taking with him his coat and the olive-wood box, went
into the little washroom.

He scarcely expected to find her there when he emerged, cooled and
refreshed; but she was still there, seated as he had left her on the
lounge.

"I wanted to ask you," she said in a low voice, "did you _kill_
them?"

"Not at all, Scheherazade," he replied gaily. "The Irish don't kill;
they beat up their friends; that's all. Fist and blackthorn, my pretty
lass, but nix for the knife and gun."

"How--did you do it?"

"Well, I got tired having a ham-fisted Dutchman pawing me and closing
my mouth with his big splay fingers. So I asked him to slide overboard
and shoved his friend after him."

"Did you shoot them?"

"No, I tell you!" he said disgustedly. "I hadn't a chance in hot
blood, and I couldn't do it in cold. No, Scheherazade, I didn't shoot.
I pulled a gun for dramatic effect, that's all."

After a silence she asked him in a low voice what he intended to do
with her.

"Do? Nothing! Chat affably with you until we reach town, if you