Florence was not dull. If Shishkin still called her 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.
“I stole 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.”