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Havoc

The Night Train From Vienna
Dorwood, whistling softly to himself, sat in a corner of his coupe rolling innumerable
cigarettes. He was a man of unbounded courage and wonderful resource, but with a
slightly exaggerated idea as to the sanctity of an American citizen. He had served his
apprenticeship in his own country, and his name had become a household word owing to
his brilliant success as war correspondent in the Russo-Japanese War. His experience of
European countries, however, was limited. After the more obvious dangers with which he
had grappled and which he had overcome during his adventurous career, he was disposed
to be a little contemptuous of the subtler perils at which his friend Bellamy had plainly
hinted. He had made his escape from the hotel without any very serious difficulty, and
since that time, although he had taken no particular precautions, he had remained
unmolested. From his own point of view, therefore, it was perhaps only reasonable that
he should no longer have any misgiving as to his personal safety. ARREST as a thief was
the worst which he had feared. Even that he seemed now to have evaded.
The coupe was exceedingly comfortable and, after all, he had had a somewhat exciting
day. He lit a cigarette and stretched himself out with a murmur of immense satisfaction.
He was close upon the great triumph of his life. He was perfectly content to lie there and
look out upon the flying landscape, upon which the shadows were now fast descending.
He was safe, absolutely safe, he assured himself. Nevertheless, when the door of his
coupe was opened, he started almost like a guilty man. The relief in his face as he
recognized his visitor was obvious. It was Bellamy who entered and dropped into a seat
by his side.
"Wasting your time, aren't you?" the latter remarked, pointing to the growing heap of
cigarettes.
"Well, I guess not," Dorward answered. "I can smoke this lot before we reach London."
Bellamy smiled enigmatically.
"I don't think that you will," he said.
"Why not?"
"You are such a sanguine person," Bellamy sighed. "Personally, I do not think that there
is the slightest chance of your reaching London at all."
Dorward laughed scornfully.
"And why not?" he asked.
Bellamy merely shrugged his shoulders. Dorward seemed to find the gesture irritating.
"You've got espionage on the brain, my dear friend," he declared dryly. "I suppose it's the
result of your profession. I may not know so much about Europe as you do, but I am
 
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