e of peace, except in novels. Really, I never imagined there were
any spies working for embassies, except in Europe. You are, to me,
such a rare specimen," he added gaily, "that I rather dread parting
with you. Won't you come to Paris with me?"

"Does what you say amuse you?"

"What _you_ say does. Yes, I think I'll take you to New York, anyway.
And as we journey toward that great metropolis together you shall tell
me all about your delightful profession. You shall be a Scheherazade
to me! Is it a bargain?"

She said in a pleasant, even voice:

"I might as well tell you now that what you've been stupid enough to
do tonight is going to cost you your life."

"What!" he exclaimed laughingly. "More murder? Oh, Scheherazade! Shame
on your naughty, naughty behaviour!"

"Do you expect to reach Paris with those papers?"

"I do, fair houri! I do, Rose of Stamboul!"

"You never will."

"No?"

"No." She sat staring ahead of her for a few moments, then turned on
him with restrained impatience:

"Listen to me, now! I don't know who you are. If you're employed by
any government you are a novice----"

"Or an artist!"

"Or a consummate artist," she admitted, looking at him uncertainly.

"I _am_ an artist," he said.

"You have an excellent opinion of yourself."

"No. I'm telling you the truth. My name is Neeland--James Neeland. I
draw little pictures for a living--nice little pictures for newspapers
and magazines."

His frankness evidently perplexed her.

"If that is so," she said, "what interests you in the papers you took
from me?"

"Nothing at all, my dear young lady! _I'm_ not interested in them. But
friends of mine are."

"Who?"

He merely laughed at her.

"_Are_ you an agent for any government?"

"Not that I know of."

She said very quietly:

"You make a terrible mistake to involve yourself in this affair. If
you are not paid to do it--if you are not interested from patriotic
motives--you had better keep aloof."

"But it's too late. I _am_ mixed up in it--whatever it may mean. Why
not tell me, Scheherazade?"

His humorous badinage seemed only to make her more serious.

"Mr. Neeland," she said quietly, "if you really are what you say you
are, it is a dangerous and silly thing that you have done tonight."

"Don't say that! Don't consider it so tragically. I'm enjoying it all
immensely."

"Do you consider it a comedy when a woman tries to kill you?"

"Maybe you are fond of murder, gentle la