CHAPTER III
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 hadheard. 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 hasgone. 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 goingvia 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 boundfor 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 anyoneon 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, eagerto 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, turningback. “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.