The reporter flushed angrily. He did not think Olga of a common type. To him there was no one like her. Still, he could scarcely quarrel with her father for saying so.
“It won’t be as easy as you think,” he returned. “Still, it might be done.”
“It must be done. Otherwise Olga must go with me. A power stronger than I decrees it.”
“Oh, well, in that event—let me think!” The reporter was beginning to enter into the spirit of the thing. “I believe I know the very girl you want. She’s doing a turn at Weser’s Music Hall. She does look like Olga in a general sort of way.”
“An actress?” questioned the Professor.
“Humph! Well, she calls herself one, and I guess we’ll let it go at that. I’ve known her for a good while, though never very well, and I believe she’s straight. That’s her reputation, anyhow. I do believe that by making-up a little she could pass for Olga with people who didn’t know her well.”
“That is all that is necessary. So long as she has the right height and figure, and bears a general resemblance to Olga, no one will question her identity if I introduce her as my daughter. Oh, yes! It will be easy. Where can I see this girl?”
Bristow looked at his watch. “She’ll be at the theatre now,” he announced. “I’ll hurry up to town and catch her as she comes out, and arrange——”
“Never mind. I’ll go with you and see her at once. There is no time to lose.” The Professor rose. “Remember, Mr. Bristow,” he added seriously: “this is no pleasure masquerade. It may easily become a matter of life and death for me, for Olga, and for others. I do not tell you more because I am sworn not to do so, and because the less you know the better; but don’t think for a moment that this is anything but deadly earnest. Now, let us go.”
Bristow rose. “Certainly,” he agreed. “But hadn’t we better speak to Olga first?”