CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
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 calledher 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.
“Istole 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 sankdown. 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 thefortress 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 couldbear 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 tome.”
The old man started. He had entirely forgotten Florence. Obviously she hoped that he would letthe 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,” heordered, 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.”