oo, Scheherazade? Would the entire
cupful have made a pretty angel of me? Oh, fie! Naughty
Scheherazade!"

She remained mute.

"Didn't you mean manslaughter with intent to exterminate?" he
insisted, watching her.

Perhaps she was thinking of her blond and bearded companion, and the
open port, for she made no reply.

"Why didn't you let him heave me out?" inquired Neeland. "Why did you
object?"

At that she reddened to the roots of her hair, understanding that what
she feared had been true--that Neeland, while physically helpless, had
retained sufficient consciousness to be aware of what was happening to
him and to understand at least a part of the conversation.

"What was the stuff with which you flavoured that soup,
Scheherazade?"

He was merely baiting her; he did not expect any reply; but, to his
surprise, she answered him:

"Threlanium--Speyer's solution is what I used," she said with a sort
of listless effrontery.

"Don't know it. Don't like it, either. Prefer other condiments."

He lifted himself on one elbow, remained propped so, tore open his
wireless telegram, and, after a while, contrived to read it:

* * * * *

"James Neeland,
"S. S. Volhynia.

"Spies aboard. Be careful. If trouble threatens captain has
instructions British Government to protect you and order arrests on
your complaint.

"Naia."

* * * * *

With a smile that was almost a grin, Neeland handed the telegram to
Ilse Dumont.

"Scheherazade," he said, "you'll be a good little girl, now, won't
you? Because it would be a shocking thing for you and your friend
across the way to land in England wearing funny bangles on your wrists
and keeping step with each other, wouldn't it?"

She continued to hold the slip of paper and stare at it long after she
had finished reading it and the words became a series of parallel
blurs.

"Scheherazade," he said lightly, "what on earth am I going to do with
you?"

"I suppose you will lodge a charge with the captain against me," she
replied in even tones.

"Why not? You deserve it, don't you? You and your humorous friend with
the yellow beard?"

She looked at him with a vague smile.

"What can you prove?" said she.

"Perfectly true, dear child. Nothing. I don't want to prove anything,
either."

She smiled incredulously.

"It's quite true,