CHAPTER XXI
Life was coming back again into Topham’s arm, and by main strength he forced his way through the crowd, making a path to the door for himself and the countess. Once through the aperture, progress was easier, though not too easy, for the crowd outside was packed and jammed about the door. At last, however, he was free, just as the clatter of hoofs on the granite told that the police patrol had arrived.
The countess clung to his arm, but made no attempt to speak. She was dressed plainly, like a factory worker of the poorer class. She looked much older than when he had seen her last, and he guessed that some of the shadows on her face had been purposely put there by skillful hands. Her hair puzzled him at first, but he soon guessed that its grayish tinge was due to powder.
The mob was dispersing, fleeing in all directions, and the police were plowing their way through it toward the wrecked restaurant.
Topham glanced about him, caught sight of thetelegraph office that he had noted half an hour before and quickly drew the woman up the steps and inside.
As he turned toward the table with its pile of blanks, she caught him by the arm. “What are you going to do?” she gasped.
Topham looked at her with infinite sadness in his eyes. “I am going to telegraph to the President that the anti-Japanese riots in San Francisco have been provoked by German agents for the purpose of embroiling Japan with the United States for some end that I cannot guess. Afterwards, I should be glad if you can spare me a word. I owe my life to you!”
The countess took no notice at all of his last words. Her attention was concentrated on what had gone before. “You will not send that dispatch!” she pleaded.
“I must. You know that I must.”
“But—but—as you say—I saved your life. If it had not been for me you would not be alive to send anything. I think I have the right to ask you not to send it. Please! For my sake!”
The sweat crept out on Topham’s forehead, but his tones did not falter. “I must,” he answered.
“Yet listen first to me! I have the right to askyou at least to listen.” Her voice, deep and rich, had lost none of its intensity, nor her glorious eyes any of their appeal. Topham would have known them anywhere; in fact, it was by them that he had first recognized her when she flung herself upon him. “Grant me at least ten minutes,” she begged. “You will not refuse the first thing I ever asked of you!”
Topham glanced up to where a clock face marked the hour. “No!” he said, gently. “I will not refuse to listen to you. But I can give you but little more than the ten minutes you ask. My train leaves in an hour and the ferry is some distance away. I will listen, but I cannot yield. I have been ordered to Washington to tell the President what I know of the Countess de Ouro Preto.”
With round eyes the woman stared at him. “So!” she syllabled, under her breath. “So he suspects.Whatdoes he suspect?” she demanded fiercely.
“I do not know.”
“But you can guess.”
Topham shook his head. “No,” he answered, gently. “I may not guess even if I could. Youknow that, countess. No one knows it better than you.”
Some great emotion seemed to sweep through the woman’s frame. She shivered, though the night was not cold; her lips trembled; her eyes stared blankly. Then, quick as it had come, the stress vanished and her features shaped themselves into a mocking smile.
“So,” she said, bitingly. “So all those pretty things you said to me in Berlin and in Tokio were false. You amused yourself, perhaps?”
Topham shook his head. “They were true,” he affirmed. “They are still true. You know it.”
His directness was disconcerting. An appeal to one against one’s self usually is. But the scorn in the woman’s eyes did not lessen.
“Yet you refuse?”
“Yes! I refuse.” A flash of passion trembled in Topham’s tones. “God!” he cried. “If I did not have to refuse! If I did not have to refuse!”
Coolly the countess studied him. His agitation was welcome. If it should increase anything was possible. But one cannot argue with a marble statue. For herself the time of self-betrayal waspast. Brain had usurped the rule of heart, and would maintain itself till the end.
“So you say,” she jeered.
Topham glanced round. The long room was nearly empty, and what occupants it had were collected at the broad windows staring out into the street.
“Countess!” he said, swiftly. “I do not know in what plot you are engaged. I can not conceive what it may be. But I am very certain that any plot in which Germany and Japan are concerned; any plot that leads German emissaries to stir up mobs to murder Japanese in San Francisco—”
“It was not murder,” pantingly.
“Was it not? I hope not? But that was the plain intent—”
“No! No! The Japanese knew. They were ordered—” she broke off.
“Of course! I knew that. Colonel Hakodate would not have been there except under orders. Yet it was murder—”
“No! It was war!”
Topham paused. “Perhaps!” he acquiesced, after an instant. “Perhaps! Murder seems to me no less murder when done by the orders of an Emperor.But it is not for me to judge. Nor will I try to question you—not even about the murder at the door of the Embassy in Berlin. God knows I shall have enough to tell the President without taking advantage of your confessions. But anything that can bring about such occurrences as I have seen tonight is a thing that no officer can keep from his chief.”
“But—but if I tell you that your President would not be interested? If I tell you that this is not at all an affair for the United States? What then? Will you believe me?”
“Believe you? As a man, yes! As an officer of the United States, no. It is not for me to believe or disbelieve. It is for me to obey. My orders were to cable what I knew. That means that I am to telegraph any later information. But, pardon me, the ten minutes are up. I must write my dispatch and go!”
He turned away, resolutely enough to all appearances. His tones were even and his manner calm. But the countess guessed that beneath the mask his heart was storming madly. She knew men, did the countess Elsa! She had met Topham’s quiet sort before.
With a sudden movement she flung her hand across the telegraph blank.
“In Berlin you asked me to marry you,” she breathed. “Do you still wish me to do so?”
Topham’s eyes flamed. “Marry me! Marry me!” he groaned. “God knows I want it more than—more than—”
“Then do not send that message, and I will marry you at once—within the hour. I will abandon my plans; give up my life work; break my oath to the dead. I will be yours to do with as you will. Only—only I ask—Forget what has happened here tonight. Do not wire it! Do not speak of it! Let it be as if it had never been. Am I not worth it, beloved? Ah! Don’t you know that I will make up to you for it all?”
Her face was very near his; her glowing eyes beamed into his; the soft fragrance of her breath fanned his cheeks. But he set his face like flint.
“No!” he said.
“Then tell the President what you like when you see him. But do not telegraph.”
“No!”
The countess drew back. “Then,” she said, with a break in her voice. “Then— Good-by.”
“Good-by?”
“Good-by—forever. That dispatch will mark the end for you and me. I beg! I implore you not to send it. But I warn you, too!”
Slowly but decidedly Topham shook his head. “God help me!” he breathed. “But send it I must!”
Swiftly, as if desiring to put himself beyond the reach of temptation, he snatched up the pen and scribbled a score of hasty words. Then he hurried to the clerk’s grating, thrust it in, and turning, staggered blindly toward the door.
But the countess was waiting for him, and in her eyes he saw a light he had never thought to see again. Heedless of who might see she stretched her arms wide.
“Thank God! Oh! Thank God! that there is one true man left,” she cried. “I thought all men were liars till you showed me to the contrary. Ihadto try you, beloved! I had to do my best to stop you, and I did do my best. But I was praying all the while that I might fail. And I thank God I did fail. Take me, beloved, and do with me what you will. I can trust you with anything in the world.”