erything
with calm and undisturbed precision; a squadron of cavalry in
brilliant uniforms leisurely emerging from some park between iron
railings under stately trees; then the crowded confusion of a railroad
station, but not the usual incidents of booking and departure, because
he was to travel by a fast goods train under telegraphed authority of
the British Government.

And that is about all that Neeland saw of the mightiest city in the
world on the eve of the greatest conflict among the human races that
the earth has ever witnessed, or ever shall, D. V.

The flying goods train that took him to the Channel port whence a
freight packet was departing, offered him the luxury of a leather
padded armchair in a sealed and grated mail van.

Nobody disturbed him; nobody questioned him; the train officials were
civil and incurious, and went calmly about their business with all the
traditional stolidity of official John Bull.

Neeland had plenty of leisure to think as he sat there in his heavy
chair which vibrated but did not sway very much; and his mind was
fully occupied with his reflections, for, so far, he had not had time
to catalogue, index, and arrange them in proper order, so rapid and so
startling had been the sequence of events since he had left his studio
in New York for Paris, via Brookhollow, London, and other points
east.

One thing in particular continued to perplex and astonish him: the
identity of a member of Parliament, known as Charles Wilson, suddenly
revealed as Karl Breslau, an international spy.

The wildest flight of fancy of an irresponsible novelist had never
created such a character in penny-dreadful fiction. It remained
incomprehensible, almost incredible to Neeland that such a thing could
be true.

Also, the young man had plenty of food for reflection, if not for
luncheon, in trying to imagine exactly how Golden Beard and Ali Baba,
and that strange, illogical young girl, Ilse Dumont, had escaped from
the _Volhynia_.

Probably, in the darkness, the fishing boat which they expected had
signalled in some way or other. No doubt the precious trio had taken
to the water in their life-jackets and had been picked up even before
armed sailors on the _Volhynia_ descended to their empty state-rooms
and took possession of what luggage could be discovered, and of the
three bombs with their charred wicks still soaking on the sopping
bed.

And now the affair had finally ended, Neeland believed, in spit