Leaning alternately to right and to left to meet the roll of the ship,
Ouro Preto made his way along the deck of the Southern Cross, his eyes
fixed on a vacant chair by Lillian Byrd’s side. Miss Byrd saw him
coming, and longed to escape, but could not do so.
She did not wish to talk with the count, although she had come on board
the Southern Cross at Buenos Ayres for the express purpose of obtaining
from him certain knowledge that she felt sure that he possessed.
For three weeks she had been working, quietly and unobtrusively but
effectively, to gain it, and when she saw him approaching she felt that
success was about to crown her efforts.
Yet in that moment of prospective triumph contrition seized her, and
she looked down, panic-stricken, striving to gain time.
Dismayed, she asked herself why she should hesitate. It was not from
any pity for Ouro Preto. Pity is the only for the weak and Ouro
Preto was not weak. Nor did her hesitation arise from sympathy or
friendship. Miss Byrd was experienced enough to know that no woman
could feel either sympathy or friendship for Ouro Preto except at
her peril; besides, she told herself that she did not even like him.
His attitude toward her irritated her; and his pride, based on his
father’s wealth and his mother’s ancestry, was as offensive as it was
unconscious.
Nor was she ashamed of her work; at least, she had never been so before.
Miss Byrd did not know why she hesitated and the fact that she did
hesitate both angered and frightened her.
Ouro Preto did not realize the situation. His admiration for Miss Byrd
had begun long before in Berlin and had steadily increased since the
day he had come on board the Southern Cross and found her, and had
grown intense as the voyage wore on. When the ship reached Barbadoes,
at which island he had expected to transfer to his own yacht, which had
come from Hamburg to meet him, he had been unable to tear himself away
from the fascinating American and had decided to go on to New York on
the Southern Cross and sail for Germany from there. Again and again he
had striven to place his relations with her on a sentimental footing,
but always she evaded him, and the closing days of the voyage found
him uncertain as to her feelings and determined to bring matters to a
climax. He never guessed that it was on just this that Miss Byrd was
counting.
When he reached her chair, he stood over it until he forced her to
raise her eyes. Then he bowed. “May I sit down?” he asked.
For a moment the girl did not answer. Then she put out her hand and
pushed the chair near her an inch or two farther away. “The chair
belongs to the ship and the deck belongs to whomever occupies it,” she
replied coldly, though her heart was fluttering.
The smile faded from Ouro Preto’s face. “Oh! but why are you so cruel,”
he cried, wildly. “What have I done to anger you? Is it that my love
offends you?”
Miss Byrd gasped. “I am not offended at all,” she answered briskly,
ignoring the suggestion in the young fellow’s last words. “I am merely
tired--bored if you will--by the length of this never-ending voyage. I
am a very bad-tempered young woman, senor; and if you knew me at all
well you would realize how unpleasant I am likely to be when I am
bored.” The girl spoke hurriedly, feeling for words which would not be
too rude and which might yet stave off the proposal which she felt was
imminent.
But Ouro Preto was not to be stopped. “I do not believe it, senorita,”
he babbled. “No, I do not believe it. You are altogether sweet and
lovely--fit for a duchess. And I can make you one, senorita. Great
things are impending. A few weeks more and I will be a duke and--”
His words steadied the girl. “Stop!” she cried. “I will not listen. I
am not the inexperienced girl you think me. I am--”
“You are the one woman for me. You do not love me, senorita. I know it.
But I can teach you to love me if you will give me the chance. And I
can give you much--much. I do not speak of money--no! no! do not think
of it! Money is nothing! I can give you more than money. I can give you
position, rank, fame.”
Miss Byrd forced a laugh. “Where?” she demanded. “In Brazil?”
“In Brazil, yes, at first; then where you will. Listen, senorita, my
mother is descended from the princely German house of Hochstein, now
extinct in the male line. The emperor is about to revive its honors
and vest them in me--in me, do you understand. And this is not all.
I am at the head of a great movement. Since I was a boy of sixteen I
have been laboring for it, and now at last the time is ripe. Only one
obstacle remains, and I am about to sweep it aside. Then--then--”
The man’s eyes burned: his breath came hot and fast. His tones carried
the intoxication of assured success.
“It is a great game and a great stake,” he hurried on. “A great game.
Its web involves four continents; it stretches from Brazil across both
the Atlantic and the Pacific and far to the northward. And at its
center I sit. Strand by strand I have woven it and tested it. It cannot
break. Why! see here!”
He thrust his hand into his pocket and drew out a paper, which he tore
apart with shaking fingers. “See!” he cried. “See what the emperor has
written. With his own hand he has written it! Read! Read!”
The girl pushed away his hand. “No! No!” she cried. “I won’t read! I
won’t listen.”
But the man would not be denied. “Read! Read!” he clamored. “Read! See
what the emperor promises.” Determinedly he thrust the paper before
her eyes, and held it there while its words burned themselves into the
girl’s brain, never to be forgotten.
“You see! You see!” he cried.
Miss Byrd drew back. Her brain was whirling. Half understood facts and
unintelligible rumors had suddenly blended into a comprehensive whole.
Rutile’s fancies had become facts--the facts of a great political
conspiracy. It was not merely what Ouro Preto had said; taken alone
that might be set down as the vaporings of a dreamer who took wishes
and fancies for facts. But dreamers do not receive letters such as his
from the Kaiser; and their dreams are not corroborated by a horde of
apparently unrelated facts such as Miss Byrd had in her possession.
The man was still speaking. “Only one thing remains in my way now,” he
triumphed. “Nothing but these cursed Yankees can oppose me. And now I
am going to draw their teeth. Too long have they assumed to control the
destinies of all the Americans. Too long have they stood in my way.
Now--now I am about to eliminate them--to crush them if they dare to
interpose. Thank God you are English--”
“But I am not English!”
The man started back. “Not English!” he babbled. “Not English! Are you
not the niece of Lord Maxwell?”
“No! I am--I am--Count! I have deceived you. I have let you think me
English. I knew you had a secret and I wanted to wheedle it out of you.
I am ashamed--ashamed. I don’t know why! I never was ashamed of my work
before. But I am now. You cannot say anything too bad for me. I deserve
it all.” The girl bowed her head and her shoulders shook.
The man caught her wrist, and spun her around to face him. “You are a
government spy?” he demanded desperately.
The girl shook her head. “No! I am a newspaper woman.”
The man’s bowed shoulders suddenly straightened. Hope sprang up in
him. “A newspaper woman! Then--then--Come! That is not so bad. You can
resign and marry me.”
But Lillian shook her head. “No! No! I cannot,” she murmured. “I am
sorry, but--I cannot.”
Ouro Preto stared at her. Then: “Well? Let that go for the moment.
Later--But now--See? I am rich! very rich! I will pay you two--three
years’ salary and you will forget all that I have said. It is a
bargain? No?”
But the girl bowed her head miserably. “Oh!” she cried. “I have fallen
low--low! I said you could say nothing too hard for me to hear, but I
never dreamed that you--you of all men--would offer me money! that you
should think me for sale. I am shamed. I have had to earn my own living
and I have done it. I have gone on from step to step, not realizing.
But, believe me, I never did anything quite so indefensible as this
before. I never tricked a man’s love to get his secret before.”
The man was listening intently. But his thoughts were clearly of
himself, and not of her. He seemed to have forgotten the words of love
that he had breathed only a few moments before. When he spoke his tones
still trembled, but with an emotion very different from love.
“Then you will not forget?” he asked.
“How can I?” whispered the girl, miserably. “If I only could! But I
can’t! I can’t. I can resign and I will. I shall give nothing to the
paper about you. If your secret were almost anything but what it is, I
would repeat it to no one. But”--the girl’s figure straightened--“but
you are plotting against my country! and I must warn those who should
know. I must! I must! You see that, don’t you, Count?”
Pleadingly she leaned forward and gazed up into his face.
“You would not have me a traitor, would you?” she questioned,
pitifully. “I don’t know just what you and your emperor are plotting,
but I can guess and I must report it. Why! count, my ancestors have
been Americans for nearly three hundred years. They have been soldiers,
statesman, patriots! I can’t be the first of my line to play the
traitor. I can’t let the Emperor William plot against my country
without warning.”
The man forced a laugh. “Plots! Plots! What are you talking about?
There is no plot. Only a--a--oh, nothing at all. It is only a--a
diplomatic errand to your State Department. Surely it needs no warning
against my diplomacy. Plots! Heavens! What sort of a plot could Germany
carry through against the United States. Your strenuous President would
smash any plot in a moment, even at the cost of war. And do you think
Germany wants war? No! No! a thousand times no. It is only a diplomatic
triumph that I seek to win. To lose it would discredit me for all
time. You do not wish for that! No! No! senorita! Your government
needs no help from you. Let it play its own game.”
But the girl shook her head. In her mind’s eye she saw the web of which
Ouro Preto had spoken. Wide and strong it stretched over half the
world. Beneath its shadow she could see the flash of cannon and the
smoke of ruined cities, with half the world bathed in blood.
The vision faded. Once more she saw the swaying deck, flashing waves,
the masts and funnels tracing wide arcs across the blue firmament.
Ouro Preto was still speaking; he was asking her something--something
that she could not understand. With new eyes she looked upon him.
All fascination, all liking, all friendship had vanished. She could
see only the enemy with whom she must cope. Blindly she struggled to
her feet, pushed past the man’s opposing arms and fled away to her
stateroom.
That night she sent the long wireless message that McNew showed to the
President.