Neither Florence nor the Professor was as much surprised at seeing the
other as might have been expected, and this for the very simple reason
that neither knew that the other had been missing. Ever since her
flight, Florence had been cut off from all information concerning the
yacht, while Professor Shishkin had vanished during the fight without
having learned of the treachery of Wilkins and the woman who was
impersonating his daughter.
Consequently, when they saw each other, neither expressed any
particular amazement nor delight. Each, indeed, was uncertain what this
confrontation in the office of the chief of the secret police could
mean. Shishkin wondered if Florence had betrayed his substitution of
her for his daughter, while Florence wondered whether the Professor
was about to bring her to shame by disclosing that very fact. Each,
therefore, stared at the other much as do two strange dogs hesitating
whether to fight or to fraternize.
At last the Professor stretched out a trembling hand. “Olga! My child!”
he quavered.
Florence was not dull. If Shishkin still called her child, he had
not betrayed her; possibly he might not intend to do so. “Father!”
she cried, with a histrionic gesture that smacked of music hall days.
“Father! But no! You are not me father! Oh, father, how could you tear
me from me happy home?”
The Professor looked stunned, as well he might. If Florence had had a
happy home when he took her from the music hall, he had never heard of
it.
Florence, however, gave him no time to explain. “Oh, father!” she cried
again. “When you stole me from the home of the Grand Duke Ivan, my real
father, did you never think how you wr’r’ronged me?”
The Professor started. The mention of the Grand Duke showed him that
Florence’s words had no such superficial meaning as he had at first
supposed. With satisfaction, he remembered that the true Olga was far
away in America. Whatever this girl was driving at, could not alter
that fact. He glanced at Demidroff, who sat watching, and grew cautious.
“_I_ stole you--I?” he protested. “What do you mean?”
Florence breathed easier. The old man had caught her cue and was
playing up to her. “All is discovered!” she cried theatrically. “Twenty
years ago, here, in Russia, you stole me from my father, the Grand Duke
Ivan, and took me to America, away from all I knew and loved. How could
you do it? How could you do it?”
Shishkin began to understand. It was not only the nihilists who knew
that he had stolen Olga; Demidroff knew it, too! This girl knew it! But
what was this talk of grand ducal paternity?
“It was my right,” he protested. “It is always a man’s right to recover
his own child.”
“But I am not your child. Did you think that I was your child when you
stole me? That explains, Baron! That explains! He thought it was his
own child he was taking. And he has been very good to me. I will not
have him hurt or punished. You must let him go. You will do that much
for me?”
Demidroff nodded. “I will do much for you, Princess,” he murmured;
“perhaps even that.”
“Professor”--he turned to the old man--“I was not in office when the
Princess Yves Napraxine was stolen, and am not very familiar with the
circumstances; but I know it did not occur to any one at the time
that she had been taken in mistake for your daughter. It was only a
few months ago, when I began to look into the case, that I suspected
something of the sort. Your words confirm my belief. Professor, you
did not steal your own daughter. You stole the daughter of the Grand
Duke Ivan, the Princess Yves Napraxine, who was the same age, and was
playing with her. You brought her up as your own. And now you have
brought her back to resume her rightful place in the world as heiress
to a great fortune and a great name.”
Professor Shishkin tottered to a chair and sank down. Not for a moment
did he doubt the truth of Demidroff’s words. Again and again he had
tried to find in Olga a resemblance to himself or to his dead wife,
but always in vain. The girl was like neither of them--in face or in
character. Often he had wondered whence she had gotten this or that
trait, and now he understood. The fabric of his life fell shattered
round him.
What was to be done? He loved Olga, even if she were not his own
daughter; for twenty years he had cared for her; he had dared nihilist
vengeance rather than let her come to Russia and run the risk of being
separated from him. He could not give her up now.
And would she want to be given up? She was married and supposedly three
thousand miles away, presumably happy and content, knowing nothing of
all this. Would she care to leave it all for a new life, even if it
brought her wealth and station? He doubted it. For the present, at any
rate, he would tell nothing.
He raised his head and looked at Demidroff. “Is this true?” he demanded.
The Baron nodded. “Perfectly true!” he replied. “From all accounts, the
disappearance of the princess was discovered almost immediately. It
was supposed that she had been stolen by some enemy of the Grand Duke.
Strenuous efforts were made to find her, but they all failed. There
were no clues. No one guessed that Count Lladislas had escaped from
the fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul and come back to carry away his
own child. Until I took the matter up, a few weeks ago, no one knew
whether she was alive or dead. Now the proofs are nearly completed; it
needs only your own affidavit that you stole this lady from the ducal
palace, to render them irrefutable.”
“But--but----” the Professor gasped--“but my own child. Where is she?”
“She is safe and well. I will tell you about her in good time. First,
however, comes that affidavit. Will you draw it up now?”
Professor Shishkin faltered. The question with him, however, was one of
sentiment and not one of morality. If need be, he was willing to make
a hundred affidavits, careless of their truth, counting it a virtue to
deceive any one connected with the Czar and his government. The memory
of the wrongs they had wrought on him still burned in his mind. Not in
all the years that had elapsed had he forgotten them. But he had begun
to remember Olga’s rights. No matter whose daughter she might be, no
matter what rightful enmity he bore against her father, she herself was
dear to him. Now that it came to the point, he could not bring himself
to throw away her rights without consulting her; certainly not without
serious consideration. He would give no affidavit at the moment.
Yet if he refused, Demidroff would keep him in suspense about his own
daughter. Well, he could bear it; he had been separated from her for
twenty years; surely he could wait a little longer.
But what excuse to give? What plea could he offer for refusing to bear
witness to a state of affairs which he had already admitted?
While still he hesitated, Demidroff, who had been watching him with
rising suspicion of he knew not what, struck in. “I believe I am
justified, Professor,” he remarked suavely, “in telling you that your
daughter is suspected of affiliation with the terrorists, and is now
being sought by the authorities. Information has recently reached me
that she is in hiding in a near-by town and is liable to be arrested
any moment. The charges against her are not very serious, however, and
I shall be glad to quash them if I have reason to believe that you are
friendly to me. This is only by the way, however. The pressing business
in hand is that affidavit.”
The old man flushed red, then white; he had opened his lips to speak,
to defy this man who was mocking him, when Florence burst in.
The show-girl had been watching the old man narrowly, and had guessed
very accurately what was passing in his mind. She felt that it was high
time for her to speak.
“Father,” she exclaimed anxiously--“for I will still call you father!
Do not forget your obligations to _me_.”
The old man started. He had entirely forgotten Florence. Obviously
she hoped that he would let the deception go on; obviously she had
fostered it, even if she had not been responsible for it; plainly she
was a little cheat, who ought to be exposed. Yet, after all, he himself
was partly responsible for her deceit; he had palmed her off as Olga,
and even if she had gone beyond his instructions, he felt it his duty
to see that no harm should come to her. Indeed, he had promised her
as much in New York. Slowly he raised his tremulous eyes. “I will not
forget,” he promised.
Florence drew a long breath. She resolved to dare everything. “Say!”
she exclaimed. “I’ll put it to you straight. When popper died--the
Grand Duke Ivan, I mean--when popper died he left a lot of money that
was to come to me if I ever turned up. He left it in the hands of Count
Strogoff as trustee. Now, what the Count’s done to it is a plenty. He
thinks it’s his, and he won’t give it up till he’s made to. He ain’t
a quitter. He’ll fight for all he’s worth, and I ain’t going to have
any walkover for the stakes. Not on your tin-type. But the Baron here
believes in me. He says he and I can win out if we do good team work.
He wants to marry me and make a play for the money. Nobody else could
win. If I was married already, for instance,”--Florence spoke slowly
and pointedly--“my name would be Dennis, for the Baron holds all the
cards and wouldn’t back the game unless he stood to pull down something
worth while. You see that, don’t you? Now, if you’ll just give the
Baron that affidavit, we’ll tour round to the Embassy and get a sure
’nuf preacher. I’ll marry the Baron again any way he says later on,
but I’ve got to be married by somebody I know something about first.
I ain’t taking any chances on an illustrated post-card priest. Now,
father, what do you say?”
The Professor had listened intently. The girl’s words carried
conviction. He had heard of Count Strogoff, and could guess how that
personage would fight to retain possession of a fortune he had once
gotten his hands on. Decidedly, the game was not worth the candle, so
far as the real Olga was concerned. It was her happiness that he wished
for, not to unsettle her life, so happily begun, by dangling before her
a dream of wealth that, however it ended, could not bring her greater
contentment than was hers at present. If Florence wanted to take the
risks of the game, let her. He owed nothing to Demidroff nor to any
other Russian.
“Very well,” he declared, turning to the Baron. “I’ll sign the
affidavit just as soon as this young lady is safely married to you at
the American Embassy--on the distinct pledge, however, that you tell
me who my daughter is and give her a chance to escape with me out of
Russia.”
The Baron nodded. “Agreed!” he exclaimed. “It is, of course, understood
that you make no complaint about the Burndo matter. Yes? Very well.”
He struck a bell, and a man entered, bringing a note which the Baron
read. “Let him wait,” he ordered, in Russian. He turned back to the
old man. “If you will go with this messenger, Professor,” he said, “he
will enable you to arrange your toilet.”
The Professor bowed and followed the man; and the Baron turned to
Florence.
“You do me honor, Princess,” he said, bowing. “It shall be my task to
see that you do not regret it. You, too, will want to arrange yourself.
But before you go, tell me where that gold is.”
Florence told him. The die was cast now, and no holding back was
possible. “But, say,” she concluded, almost wistfully, “you won’t hurt
those Wilkinses, will you? They’re right nice boys, and while, of
course, I ain’t treating them any worse than they treated Mr. Caruth,
still, I’d hate to have their deaths on my conscience.”
The Baron laughed happily and pinched Florence’s cheek. “Oh ho!” he
cried. “I am to spare everybody, am I?--even the Wilkinses? You are too
tender hearted for Russia, Princess! But I’ll do it this time. I’ll
spare them if they’ll let me. Now, Princess, au revoir. As soon as you
are ready, we will start for the Embassy.”