And now he remembered that Ilse Dumont apparently knew about
her--about Ruhannah, too. And Ilse Dumont was the agent of a foreign
government.
Was the Princess Mistchenka, patron and amateur of the arts, another
such agent? If not, why had he taken this journey for her with this
box of papers?
The passage of the Boulevard was slow; at every square traffic was
halted; all Paris crowded the streets in the early afternoon sunshine,
and the taxicab in which they sat made little speed until the Place de
la Concorde opened out and the great Arc--a tiny phantom of lavender
and pearl--spanned the vanishing point of a fairy perspective between
parallel and endless ramparts of tender green.
"There was a lot of war talk on the Volhynia," said Neeland, "but I
haven't heard any since I landed, nor have I seen a paper. I suppose
the Chancelleries have come to some agreement."
"No," said the Princess.
"You don't expect trouble, do you? I mean a general European
free-for-all fight?"
"I don't know, Jim."
"Haven't you," he asked blandly, "any means of acquiring inside
information?"
She did not even pretend to evade the good-humoured malice of his
smile and question: "Yes; I have sources of private information. I have learned nothing,
so far."
He looked at Rue, but the smile had faded from her face and she
returned his questioning gaze gravely.
"There is great anxiety in Europe," she said in a low voice, "and the
tension is increasing. When we arrive home we shall have a chance to
converse more freely." She made the slightest gesture with her head
toward the chauffeur--a silent reminder and a caution.
The Princess nodded slightly: "One never knows," she remarked. "We shall have much to say to one
another when we are safely home."
But Neeland could not take it very seriously here in the sunshine,
with two pretty women facing him--here speeding up the Champs Elysées
between the endless green of chestnut trees and the exquisite
silvery-grey façades of the wealthy--with motors flashing by on every
side and the cool, leafy alleys thronged with children and
nurse-maids, and Monsieur Guignol squeaking and drumming in his
red-curtained box!
How could a young man believe in a sequel to the almost incredible
melodrama in which he had figured, with such a sane and delightful
setting, here in the familiar company of two charming women he had
known?
Besides, all Paris and her police were at his elbow; the olive-wood
box stood between his knees; a smartly respectable taxi and its driver
drove them with the quiet éclat and precision of a private
employé; the Arc de Triomphe already rose splendidly above them, and
everything that had once been familiar and reassuring and delightful
lay under his grateful eyes on every side.