“Sure! * * * it’s this way. She and her brother are the children of the Count Ouro Preto, Governor of the state of Rio Grande do Sul, Brazil. They are also the grandchildren of a former Duke of Hochstein, by a second, morganatic, marriage with a ballet dancer, by whom he had one daughter. All the duke’s children by his first and royal consort died. All his nephews died. Everybody died, except the morganatic daughter, who married a Brazilian, the Count of Ouro Preto, and went to South America with him. The ducal line became extinct, for of course this daughter’s descendants had no standing. Now comes Ouro Preto and his sister, children of this daughter, backed by enormous wealth, and petition the Emperor to revive the duchy in their behalf. You see, her marriage to the duke was proper and religious and all that, and was only morganatic because the duke was chief of a mediatized German house, and couldn’t marry except among his princely beery peers. Now the Ouro Pretos have faked up a royal pedigree for the ballet dancer. If they can make it stick, they establish her moral claim to the duchy, and gain a sort of backstairs standing for themselves. Of course the ballet dancer pedigree is faked; everybody says it’s faked; the Kaiser probably knows it’s faked; but that won’t cut any ice if Wilhelm decides to declare it established. And everybody is on pins and needles to know whether he is going to do it or not. Ouro Preto has offered to buy back the ducal estates, which were escheated to the Emperor half a century ago, at two million dollars, which is about three times their value, and to spend two million more on beautifying the tiny capital of Hochstein. It’s all a matter of price. Lord, Topham! I used to think we had a monopoly of graft on the other side of the water. But we haven’t. Not a bit of it. We buy senatorships and these people buy titles. The same longing for power, the same craving for notoriety, the same love of display exists in the U. S. A. as here. Ouro Preto wants to be a sovereign duke and he’s got the scads to pay for it. It’s up to the kaiser to say whether he bids high enough. And I shouldn’t wonder if the Countess Elsa would turn the scale.”
Suddenly the reporter broke off. He clutched Topham by the arm and dragged him to the edge of the pavement. “Stand still a minute,” he ordered, as he rested his hand on the navy officer’s shoulder and raised himself on tiptoe. “Yes! it’s she,” he exclaimed, an instant later. “You big men will never realize how useful your inches are till you try being a little man in a crowd. You say you have never seen the fair Elsa, Countess del Ouro Preto? Well! You are about to have that pleasure. Yonder she comes, in that red motor.”
Walter looked where the other pointed. Then something seemed to grip him by the throat, and he caught at the journalist’s shoulder to steady himself.
The motor was very near, and he could see its occupants distinctly. They were two in number. One was stout and middleaged; Topham’s eyes passed over her unheeding. The other was Elsa Ferreira.
Her eyes met Topham’s and a great wave of crimson flooded over her cheeks. Her hand slipped, and the motor swerved sharply. The other woman started and screamed out, and the fair driver, suddenly recalled to herself, barely avoided a collision. Then the car swept on.
Topham followed it with his eyes, forgetful of his whereabouts till it was swallowed up in the press. Then suddenly he became aware that the correspondent was shaking him violently by the arm.
“What is it?” he questioned vaguely.
“What is it!” Risdon’s voice was trembling with excitement. “What is it? Brace up, for God’s sake, Walter,” he begged. “People are staring. If you could see yourself! But good Lord, I don’t wonder! Nobody ever looked at me as that woman looked at you.”
With a great effort Topham regained his composure. “Nonsense!” he said. “Forget for a moment that you’re a yellow journalist, Risdon, and don’t try to make a sensation out of nothing. I know the lady slightly. She crossed with me from New York.”