Topham woke the next day with a splitting headache and a slight but
persistent nausea--about what might have been expected after his
experience of the night before. The sea had gone down considerably and
though the steamer still rolled somewhat, it no longer pitched to any
degree that should have been in the least disquieting to an at all
seasoned stomach. So Topham rolled out of bed and got on deck as soon
as possible. The fresh air slowly restored him to his normal condition
and by noon little remained to remind him of his humiliating experience.
He saw nothing of Senorita Ferreira, and though he kept a continual
hopeful watch for her, he yet did not altogether regret her absence as
it gave him a chance to think things out.
All the forenoon he lay in his steamer chair drinking in the sea-air
and pondering the situation. In some points his illness had been unlike
any seasickness he had ever heard of; though not entirely dissimilar
to some cases of which he had heard. He felt certain that it was not
an entirely natural illness, but was very uncertain whether it had
resulted from an accidental bane in something he had eaten or whether
he had been deliberately drugged. If he had been drugged, it could have
been done with no other purpose than to rob him of the packet confided
to him by the Secretary of State. He blessed the forethought that had
led him to get the purser to lock it up in the ship’s safe. Struck by a
sudden idea he went below and examined his baggage, but could discover
no sign that it had been searched.
The incident, whether resulting from accident or design, brought home
to him the seriousness of his errand. If he had really been the victim
of a deliberate attempt at robbery, it proved that the cause of his
journey to Berlin was no secret and that daring and unscrupulous foes
were watching him. He had fooled them once, but the voyage was scarcely
begun, and it was not conceivable that they would not follow up the
attack. Topham was as brave as most men, but he felt himself at a
serious disadvantage; his enemies knew him--probably knew all about
him--and he knew nothing of them, neither their age nor their sex nor
their number.
It behooved him to find them out if possible. Naturally his first
thought was of the soft-spoken Spanish-American who had offered him a
cigarette. What was in that cigarette, he wondered. Was anything in
it? Had he really been unconscious and if so, for how long? Had he
been practically so while he stood clutching the rail or had he only
become so after he had been helped to the chair by Senorita Ferreira?
Was she in the plot--if there was a plot? He could contemplate this
last possibility calmly, for it never occurred to him to impute moral
turpitude to those whose interests ran counter to his in a game of high
politics such as this seemed to be.
Think as he might, however, he could not answer any of the questions
that were puzzling him. All he could do was for the situation to
develop itself. He would speak to the Spaniard, but he knew that he
could hope to gain little by doing so. That gentleman, he was sure,
would be provided with an unimpeachable defense.
As for Senorita Ferreira--Well! he had no real reason to suspect
her--or anyone else, for that matter. Probably, indeed, she had come up
in time to frighten off his real assailant.
“All’s well that ends well,” he decided, finally. “If my Dago friend
really did drug me to get the packet, he got decidedly left. On the
other hand, I’ve got an opening with the girl. I’ll take her innocence
for granted till I see mighty good reason to do otherwise. I wonder
where she is, by the way?”
It was not till afternoon, however that the girl came on deck.
She was alone and Topham went straight to her side. “Pardon me,” he
said. “I want to thank you for your great kindness last night.”
The girl smiled at him. “I hope you feel better, senor!” she said.
“Much better! Seasickness is humiliating, but it isn’t lasting. I am
all right, except that I am still a little shaky on my legs.” As he
spoke Topham wobbled with what he hoped was artistic verisimilitude.
The girl uttered a little cry. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “You must not
stand. Take this chair.” She indicated the one next to hers and Topham
sank into it with a sigh of content.
Two hours later when the dinner gong sounded, the girl started and
looked at her watch. “Good gracious!” she exclaimed. “How the day has
gone. I make you my compliments, senor! You have made the time fly.”
She rose and Topham regretfully followed suit.
“I hope you will give me another opportunity, senorita,” he pleaded.
“But yes. Most certainly! I shall be charmed.” With a smile and a nod
she was gone.
The most of the voyage--or as much of it as the proprieties and the
Baroness Ostersacken would permit--Topham spent by Miss Ferreira’s
side. Day after day the two watched the shadows shorten, vanish, and
grow long once more. Night after night they saw the moon sail across
the star-dusted sky, and watched the ripples break athwart her silvery
reflection in the water. Day after day, night after night they grew
into each other’s thoughts--while the Baroness Ostersacken played
propriety in the background.
By the end of the voyage each had learned much about the other. Topham
had learned that the girl was the daughter of a German mother and a
Brazilian father and that she was returning from a trip to Rio Janiero,
made in charge of her cousin the Baroness, to join her brother at
Berlin. She, on the other hand, learned that Topham was a navy officer,
en route for Tokio, who was going via Berlin to see an old friend,
and would thence go to Brindisi to join his ship. Not a word nor a
suggestion from either had reference to any papers he might carry.
Long before the end of the voyage Topham had made up his mind that
this was the one girl in the world for him. His earlier affection for
Lillian Byrd he had absolutely forgotten or remembered only to wonder
that he should ever have mistaken it for real love. It was a very milk
and water feeling contrasted with the madness that possessed him now.
Yet what to do? His orders were imperative and he must obey them to the
last jot and tittle. Nothing must be allowed to prevent his reaching
Berlin and delivering his packet to Rutile; nothing must be allowed to
prevent him from reporting on board the Nevada at Brindisi four days
later; and nothing must prevent him from reaching Japan and trying to
get the information his government desired.
For the first time in his life the collar galled. Oh! to be free to
take this woman in his arms and tell her that he loved her. He believed
that he would not do so in vain. But he knew, none better, that he had
no right to speak while bound for the antipodes. And if he could not
speak he had no right to hint nor suggest nor attempt, however vaguely,
to bind the girl’s fancy.
For another reason he was not free. His mysterious illness had not
recurred, but neither had it been explained. Several times he had seen
and twice he had spoken with his Spanish-American acquaintance, (whose
name turned out to be Sebastian Gomez), but he had been able to find
out nothing suspicious about him. And even if he had been convinced of
the man’s guilt, he was still absolutely without reason to suspect Miss
Ferreira of any complicity in it. Almost he had made up his mind that
his illness had really been accidental. If his own interests alone had
been concerned he would have dismissed the incident from his mind.
But not only his own interests were involved. His country had trusted
him to carry a message safely to Berlin and he had no right to take
any chance nor to neglect any precaution nor to disregard any threat,
however slight, that might endanger his carrying out its behests.
Until that packet was in Rutile’s hands, he must not involve himself
with anyone--least of all with anyone on whom even the suggestion of
suspicion could fall.
So he kept silent, even on the last evening of the voyage--even when
he saw the sun rise beyond the distant line that marked Germany and
the port of Cuxhaven, at the mouth of the Elbe, where he must leave
the ship and finish his journey to Berlin by rail, to the destruction
of all chance for further familiar intercourse. He had resolved on his
course and he would stick to it at whatever cost. He would part from
the girl without a word of love and discharge his duty to the last
iota. Then--then he would get leave or resign if need be and come back
to seek her. It was cold comfort to hope that he might find her still
free, but it was all he had.
Rapidly Cuxhaven swelled in the perspective, and soon the steamer
drew alongside the dock. As Topham watched the welcoming crowd,
Miss Ferreira, standing by his side, gave a cry and began to wave
her handkerchief. “See, senor!” she exclaimed. “My brother! Yonder!
Herrman! Herrman!” she called.
A patch of white fluttered in the hands of a man on the pier; and the
owner pressed forward, eager to get on board. Soon Topham saw him
coming up the plank.
The navy officer drew aside to let sister and brother meet without
intrusion. Later, Miss Ferreira called him and he stepped forward to be
introduced.
Ferreira was very like his sister, but was tall and strong, almost
as tall and strong, Topham judged, as he himself. He clasped the
American’s hand warmly.
“I am delighted to meet you, senor,” he cried. “My sister tells me how
much you have done to make her crossing pleasant. Do you go directly to
Berlin, senor?”
Topham nodded. “Directly!” he replied.
“Then we shall be fellow passengers.”
“That will be pleasant. You came to take Miss Ferreira back, I suppose?”
But the Brazilian shook his head. “Not exactly,” he replied. “I came to
bring her word that she must stop over in Hamburg, only two hours away.
Beyond Hamburg we will go on without her.”
Without noticing that Topham had paled at his words the Brazilian
glanced over the side.
“If you are ready, senor,” he remarked, turning back. “Perhaps we had
better descend to the custom house.”
Topham hesitated. “If you’ll wait for just an instant,” he answered.
“I’ll be with you. I want to speak to the purser.”
Ferreira nodded, and Topham disappeared. In a few minutes he was back.
A slight bulge above his right breast showed the presence of a packet
of some kind and an occasional slight lift of his coat in the fresh
breeze, showed that it consisted of a big official-looking envelope.
But if either Ferreira or his sister noticed it they did not let the
fact appear.