“I have nothing more to say. I told it all in the note. I am going to the Baltic to get proof of my theory about sea-floors. I am going on the yacht of Mr. Caruth, a young scientific friend of mine. That is all. I can’t discuss it further.”
The reporter concealed his dismay. Olga had certainly not exaggerated the old man’s condition. He had aged markedly since Bristow had last seen him. He was burning himself out. It occurred to the reporter that the conspirators—for he did not doubt that there was a conspiracy—had better be careful or the Professor would not live to carry out their wishes, whatever these might be.
“Just as you say, Professor,” he answered. “But I want to talk to you about something else. Won’t you ask me to sit down?” He moved a chair up beside the old man’s accustomed seat, and stood waiting.
Professor Shishkin hesitated for an instant. Then the demands of courtesy had their way. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I’m not myself. I’m an old man, and I grow forgetful. Sit down, Mr. Bristow. I’m very glad to see you. Ask me what you will.”
“Even unto the half of your kingdom?” queried the reporter. “I want more than that, Professor. I want Miss Olga!”
“Olga!” The Professor half rose. “What do you mean?” he gasped.
“I mean that I want to marry her,” returned Bristow. The people who called Bristow cheeky would not have known him. His heart was thumping painfully, and his color came and went, though he managed to keep his features calm. “We love each other, and we want to marry.”
For a moment Professor Shishkin stared at the young man. Then he burst into a fit of laughter that made the reporter look at him in amazement.
But, unheeding, the Professor cackled on as if he would never stop. His shrunken form fairly shook with merriment that rapidly grew hysterical. So long it continued that Bristow forgot his own excited feelings and grew anxious.
At last the old man calmed himself. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Bristow,” he quavered. “I beg your pardon. I was very discourteous. I was not laughing at you, but at the way things come about. What creatures of fate we all are! We think we control events, but events really control us! Mr. Bristow, I have been worrying myself sick about Olga, and here you come, pat to the moment, to set everything straight. You say that Olga loves you?”