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 to me.”
The old man started. He had entirely forgotten Florence. Obviously she hoped that he would let the 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.”