The Professor looked puzzled. “To Olga? Why?” he questioned.
“Well, she might conceivably object. Women don’t always look at things from the same point of view as men.”
The Professor hesitated; then he waved his hand indifferently. “Perhaps you are right,” he admitted. “But Olga must agree. Seriously, this is the only means of saving her life and mine.”
CHAPTER TEN
BRISTOW and the Professor had been waiting at the stage door for only a few minutes when men and women, singly or in twos or threes, began to dribble through the gates and lose themselves in the homeward-bound crowds.
“Miss Lee will be out here in a minute now, Professor,” observed the reporter. “See if you can pick her out. If you can, it will be a sort of a test as to her resemblance to Olga. If you can’t, I’ll show you.”
The Professor nodded. Years seemed to have fallen from his shoulders. “Very well,” he agreed cheerfully.
No misgivings as to the girl’s acceptance of his offer troubled him. His idea was to offer her a trip to Europe, abundant fine clothes, reasonable money, and the chance to play lady for a few months among cultured people, and to ask in return only that she should pass as his daughter. Concerning the risks of the trip, he intended to say nothing, feeling confident that there would be no risk for her. Even if the worst came to the worst and he himself went to a Russian prison—which seemed unlikely—he could not conceive how she could come to harm, his desire to leave Olga behind being based on very different reasons. Offering everything, and asking only a service that was in itself a pleasure, Professor Shishkin could not see how any girl could hesitate. All of which shows that he was not familiar with certain temptations which every handsome working girl and especially every actress in the great city had long been schooled to resist.
At last she came, and he picked her out instantly. The likeness to Olga was striking, though the differences were so great that no one who really knew either girl would be at all likely to mistake her for the other. With Bristow at his side, he started forward.
Miss Lee might fairly be called a type. From her high-ratted pompadour, past her exaggerated straight-front, to the flare at the bottom of her cheap skirt, she was dressed in the style. Neat as a cherry blossom, she carried herself with a dash that the Professor found himself mentally approving. A spot of red burned in either cheek, and her eyes snapped as she stepped upon the street. A student of the sex would have declared that she was in a royal rage.