Baron Demidroff entered the office of the Embassy jauntily. Things
were coming his way. He had found the Princess and gotten her on his
side, and he would soon recover the _Orkney’s_ gold. With such a potent
recommendation, he could reëstablish himself in favor, wrest the
control of the Princess’s fortune from Count Strogoff, and put that
gentleman where he could do no more harm. There was not a cloud on his
horizon.
But there were a good many on that of the _Chargé_. Ignorant of the
true reason of the Baron’s errand he could put but one construction on
it: the Baron was coming in person to demand the surrender of Caruth’s
bride. He foresaw various unpleasantnesses before the matter was
settled.
Nevertheless, he rose to greet the Baron warmly. He knew him very well
indeed, having, in fact, taught him to play poker at the club only the
night before.
On this intimacy he based almost his sole hope of a satisfactory
outcome to the affair. Those people who assert that the functions of
an ambassador have been superseded by the cable and the long-distance
telephone, and argue that those highly ornate offices should be
abolished forthwith, fail to take into account the mellowing effects
of personal intercourse. Men who have met daily on friendly terms can
usually smooth over causes of irritation as they arise and prevent
them from developing into crises, and can often even suppress a crisis
itself after it has developed--unless, of course, one or the other
country is determined to quarrel. The _Chargé_ believed that the Baron
would not quarrel with him unless it could not be avoided.
So he sprang to his feet. “Ah, Baron! Glad to see you,” he cried. “Sit
down. What can I do for you?” He glanced expectantly at the tall old
gentleman and the handsome girl who stood waiting close behind.
The Baron chuckled. “Much, my dear fellow, much,” he cried. “But first
let me present my friends. This is Professor Shishkin, so called, for
whom you have been inquiring so anxiously for several days. I believe
you have not met!”
The _Chargé_ grasped the Professor’s hand. “What!” he cried. “Really!
Why, Professor, you don’t know how glad I am to see you. We’ve been----”
“And this,” the Baron interrupted; “this is the lady who for twenty
years has been known as Miss Olga Shishkin, and who has passed as
daughter of Professor Shishkin.”
The _Chargé_ bowed. Officially, he had heard of Florence’s flight only
as a disappearance, and was supposed to know nothing of the peculiar
circumstances attending it. Actually, he knew a good deal more than
had appeared on the surface, and the conjunction of his three visitors
staggered him. And what was this talk about a “supposed” daughter?
“I’m glad to see you,” he muttered half-heartedly. “How did you----”
Again the Baron broke in. “Professor Shishkin,” he announced, “will
tell you that he was knocked overboard during the outrageous attack
by robbers on the _Sea Spume_! He was held prisoner for several days
and was finally rescued by my men and brought here. Miss Shishkin,
so-called----”
The door opened and Bristow bounced in, with Olga at his heels.
“We came right over,” he began, “the moment we----”
He stopped, with distended eyes. It takes something to surprise a
veteran newspaper man, but the presence of Demidroff, Shishkin, and
Florence together in that place did it.
“I beg your pardon,” he boggled. “I thought you were alone. I’ll----”
But Olga had seen the Professor, and her one thought was to get at him.
With shining eyes, she thrust by her husband and rushed forward, hands
outstretched.
As she passed, Bristow realized the situation.
“Olga!” he cried sharply. “Olga!”
The tones reached the girl’s inner consciousness and she stopped,
hesitating.
Before she could recover, Bristow passed her and grasped the
Professor’s hand. “I’m delighted to see you safe again, Professor,” he
declared. “Mrs. Bristow and I had about given you up. She felt very
strongly about your fate.... Olga! Shake hands with Professor Shishkin.”
The Professor had managed to keep his self-possession. Though Olga’s
presence was a surprise she was not to him as one returned from the
dead, as he was to her. Mingled with his surprise was a feeling of
enormous relief. Olga seemed to have appeared in direct answer to his
prayers, to enable him to submit to her the question of her future. The
need for caution still remained, however, and controlled him.
Quietly he and Olga pressed each other’s hands, putting off to the
future the more intimate welcoming that would come. Bristow drew a long
breath of relief as he saw them. It did not occur to him to look at
Florence; in fact, for the moment he had forgotten her.
Demidroff relieved the situation. So sure of the facts and so full of
his approaching triumph was he, that he was less observant than usual
and saw nothing suspicious in the greeting. Nor did it occur to him to
look at Florence, not dreaming that the meeting of the Professor and
Mrs. Bristow could be of interest to her.
Eagerly he pressed on with his program. “I’m glad to see you, Mr.
Bristow,” he proclaimed. “You are the man above all others I would have
hoped for. Through the Consolidated Press, you can lay before the world
the amazing tale I have to tell.”
The reporter pricked up his ears. If Demidroff characterized a tale as
amazing, it was worth listening to.
“Twenty years ago,” went on the Baron, “Count Lladislas Metrovitch,
a Pole and a professor in the University here, was arrested for
participation in a plot against the Czar. Whether he was guilty or not
does not matter now. He was convicted and was imprisoned in a fortress.
After three years it was reported that he was dead. The truth was that
he had escaped.
“His first act was to look for his family. He learned that his wife had
died shortly after his arrest, and that his daughter was being cared
for by the Grand Duke Ivan, who had known him and his wife. By some
means, he got into the Grand Duke’s palace. He saw there a child about
four years old, which was the age of his own child, and from various
circumstances concluded that she was his own child. He was deceived;
she was not his own. She was the little Princess Yves Napraxine,
daughter of the Grand Duke. But, unknowing, he stole her and escaped to
America, where he took the name of Shishkin.”
The Baron paused and glanced around to note the effect of his story.
He need not have feared; his listeners, one and all, were hanging
breathlessly on his words. The thoughts of each differed from those
of the rest, but there was not one to whom the recital did not come
sharply home. Bristow and Olga, especially, were beginning to realize
what this might mean. No one had yet thought of Florence.
“The Grand Duke,” went on the Baron, “died ten years ago. He left
enormous wealth and no children except the missing princess. He had
always refused to believe her dead, and in his will he left all his
fortune to her and provided for keeping up the search for her. If she
was not found in twenty years, the estates were to escheat to the crown.
“Count Strogoff was made trustee of these estates, and as time passed
on, and the princess did not appear, he doubtless came to look upon
them as his own. Undoubtedly he will demand the best of proof before
giving them up. But slowly and surely I have traced the matter and
riveted the proofs one by one until they are indisputable.
“I was about to send for Professor Shishkin--Count Lladislas--when
he suddenly started for Russia on the _Sea Spume_, bringing with him
this lady whom he supposed to be his daughter, but who was really the
Princess Yves Napraxine.”
As the Baron spoke, he drew Florence forward. “I have the honor,” he
declared, “to present to you the Princess Yves Napraxine.”
Florence faced them boldly. Her face was white. The desperation of
a cornered rat shone in her eyes. Her swelling heart seemed about to
suffocate her. Yet she faced them all, head high; she would take her
medicine bravely when the time came; at least, they should not call her
coward.
Olga, too, was pale. The revelation of her birth stunned her; the
complications terrified her; the loss at one blow of him whom she
had always called father and the substitution of fresh kindred and
fresh life made her brain reel. Desperately she strove to reduce the
confusion to order.
The Baron gave her time. “The Princess Yves Napraxine,” he went on
suavely, “has done me the honor to consent to become my wife. I come
now to ask my good friend the _Chargé_ to permit the ceremony to
be performed at his Embassy by the American clergyman. Immediately
afterwards we will be remarried by the full rites of the Greek Church.”
The _Chargé_ said something courteous, but no one except the Baron
heard him. The rest were listening to Olga and the Professor.
The former had found her tongue at last. Gently she laid her hand on
the old man’s sleeve. “Is this true?” she questioned softly.
Long the Professor gazed into her eyes, and what he read there gave him
courage.
“Yes,” he answered slowly; “I believe it is true. Certainly it is
true that I stole the child, thinking her my own daughter. I took
her to America, brought her up as my own, loved her, cared for her.
And she was a good daughter to me, tender, sweet, affectionate. If I
wronged her by taking her from her rightful station in life, I did it
unknowingly. But I am not so sure that I did wrong her. To be a Russian
princess is a great thing, but to be an American girl and become the
wife of a good, true American is also a great thing. I am not certain
that the exchange was not a good thing for her as well as for me. And
still more do I doubt whether the change back now will be good for her.
Count Strogoff is powerful and unscrupulous; he will fight to retain
control of the Napraxine millions. Only the most powerful support can
win against him; only one like Baron Demidroff can venture to throw
down the gage to such a one as he. I cannot advise; the Princess is
twenty-three years old; she must choose for herself. But before she
does choose, it might be well for her to advise with you. You, too, are
an American girl! You can tell her what you would do in her place!”
The old man’s voice dropped. He had said all there was to be said. For
good or for ill, the matter now lay in Olga’s hands. Almost calmly he
waited for her to choose.
The atmosphere had grown suddenly tense. Even the Baron and the
_Chargé_, ignorant of the facts as they were, found themselves hanging
on Olga’s lips, while to Bristow and Florence the suspense was
terrible.
For a moment Olga hesitated. Then she laughed lightly. “Good gracious!”
she exclaimed, in a voice that somehow instantly relaxed the tension.
“Good gracious! How can I tell? I’m not in the Princess’s place. I’m
married! If I wasn’t--well, I don’t know. But”--she put out her hand
and clasped that of her husband--“but as things are, I wouldn’t risk
losing Joe for all the estates in Russia. I wouldn’t give up America
for the finest position that Russia could offer. Certainly I wouldn’t
trade my happiness for a lawsuit. Joe tells me that I am an American
queen now; why should I care to become a Russian princess. Oh, no! It
wouldn’t suit me at all. But----” she faced Florence with serenity in
her eyes--“but that hasn’t anything to do with you, Princess. If you
want to go ahead, we will all do everything we can to make success
easy for you. I am sure that you need never fear that any of us will
obstruct you in any way. In fact, I, for one, shall always be eternally
grateful to you--for permitting me the honor of your acquaintance, of
course.”
Florence’s hard eyes grew soft. “Anything I can do for you--” she began.
But Olga had turned away. Grateful to Florence she might be, but
she did not care to fraternize with her, certainly not until her
disappearance from the yacht had been explained. Besides, she wanted
to talk with Bristow, never so dear to her as at that moment of
abnegation.
Ringing with happiness, the Professor’s voice struck in. Everything was
coming out as he wanted it.
“Where is that affidavit, Baron?” he questioned. “I’ll sign it now with
pleasure, and the _Chargé_ here will witness it.”
Slowly Demidroff drew out the paper. The scene that had just passed
puzzled him. He was not dull, or he would never have climbed to his
post in the Russian service, and a suspicion that all was not as he had
supposed began to stir in his brain. He did not guess the truth--how
could he?--but probably a glimmer of something not far from the truth
quivered before his eyes. He shot a keen glance at Florence, who bore
it without visible emotion; then, as one who had resolved to go on at
all hazards, he handed the affidavit to the Professor and saw it signed
and witnessed.
“Now,” he said, “my dear _Chargé_, will you send for your minister?”
The _Chargé_ tugged at his mustache. He had been rather crowded into
the background for the past few moments and was glad to get into the
limelight again. Besides, he judged that the psychical moment had come
to do what he could for Caruth.
“Certainly, my dear Baron,” he rejoined, fingering a note that an
attendant had brought him a moment before. “Certainly. He is in the
next room. I sent for him a few moments before your arrival, although,
of course, I had no idea that you would require his services. In fact,
I thought you came on a very different matter.”
“Yes?” The Baron was polite, but was plainly impatient. The _Chargé’s_
ideas were of little moment to him.
“Yes! The fact is I thought you came to demand the surrender of a
certain young lady whom you might have some reason to suppose to be
here--a Russian lady known as Marie Fitzhugh.”
“Oh, yes! What of her? I understand that she is here.” The Baron knew,
of course, that Marie was in the Embassy; and the _Chargé_ knew that he
knew it or would soon know it. Anything else was impossible.
“No such person is in the Embassy,” explained the _Chargé_ courteously.
“In fact, there is no Russian young lady here at all. However, I should
like to present you to an American young lady who has been here for a
few moments only.”
The Baron looked puzzled. “I shall be charmed to meet any friend of
your excellency’s,” he nodded.
The _Chargé_ stepped to the inner door of the room. “Will you young
people please come in here,” he called.
Side by side Caruth and Marie entered, followed by Reverend Mr. Forbes,
the American clergyman. Caruth’s head was bound up, but his eyes were
bright.
“Baron,” said the _Chargé_. “Let me present to you Mr. and Mrs. Caruth,
just married by the Reverend Mr. Forbes, who will shortly officiate
at your own wedding. A foreign-born wife, as you of course know, takes
the status of her husband and becomes a citizen of his country. Mr. and
Mrs. Caruth are about to sail for America on the _Sea Spume_, leaving
Russia forever. I give you my personal assurance of this. Would you
mind viséing their passports, and thus guaranteeing them safe conduct
out of Russia?”
The Baron swallowed once or twice. Then he smiled.
“We Russians are not all quite so black as we are painted,” he said.
“I shall be happy to endorse their passports.” He paused for a moment.
“I regret to add,” he finished, “that the visé will be good for
twenty-four hours only.”
He turned to the Professor, who was plucking him by the sleeve.
“I have not forgotten, Professor,” he smiled. “You want your daughter.
Your _own_ daughter, I mean, of course. There she stands,” and he
pointed to Mrs. Caruth.