Ouro Preto sipped his beer slowly. “It’s great,” he cried. “It must mean something. And yet you can never tell. Obstacles arise out of nothing. There are so many interlocking interests over here. One touches a Frenchman and a Russian suddenly springs up in his way. One whispers a secret to an Italian, and the next day an Englishman greets him with it. You Americans are happy to stand aside from all this. As the great Washington said, you have no entangling alliances. You need no diplomacy. But here—here every man must be a diplomat and must intrigue. It is of a necessity.”
The Brazilian raised his stick and beckoned again to the waiter. “Zwei bier,” he ordered. While he waited, he gazed round at the near-by tables, scanning their occupants one by one, as if to single out any who might be watching.
Those at the tables were sufficiently diverse. At one table a couple of Englishmen were drinking gin; at another the members of a party, conspicuously American, were laughing guiltily as they tasted unaccustomed wine; beyond two or three Italians were making a tremendous noise over a bottle of vin ordinaire; close at hand an unescorted lady, apparently French, was sipping a glass of champagne.
The count seemed satisfied with the results of his scrutiny, for he turned to Topham with a smile. “Only the usual set,” he observed, “At least, so far as I can see. Probably I alarm myself needlessly. So far as I know, it is to no one’s interest to oppose me. You can think of no one, eh! my friend?”
“I?” Topham stared at the man in surprise. “Of course not. I didn’t know till today what you were after; and certainly I have never heard anyone suggest any opposition. Why should they?”
The Brazilian laughed. “Why should they, indeed?” he answered, lightly. He broke off, and Topham saw that he was watching some one.
The swish of a skirt just behind his chair and a faint perfume that stole upon his senses warned the American not to look around too suddenly. When he did manage to turn with sufficient casualness, he saw two ladies and a gentleman taking their seats at a vacant table a few feet away. The man’s face was toward him and he recognized him at once. The girls’ backs were turned, but something familiar in the pose of one of them set his heart to thumping.
Ouro Preto leaned forward, excitedly. “Do you know who they are?” he demanded. “The ladies, I mean. I know the ambassador, of course, though only by sight.”
Topham nodded. “I know one of them,” he declared. “One is Lord Maxwell’s daughter. The other—”
But the Brazilian was not listening. “Did you see her face?” he questioned. “Hers! The one to the right. She’s a wonderful creature! Dios! Topham! I must meet her!”