Topham glanced about him, caught sight of the telegraph office that he had noted half an hour before and quickly drew the woman up the steps and inside.
As he turned toward the table with its pile of blanks, she caught him by the arm. “What are you going to do?” she gasped.
Topham looked at her with infinite sadness in his eyes. “I am going to telegraph to the President that the anti-Japanese riots in San Francisco have been provoked by German agents for the purpose of embroiling Japan with the United States for some end that I cannot guess. Afterwards, I should be glad if you can spare me a word. I owe my life to you!”
The countess took no notice at all of his last words. Her attention was concentrated on what had gone before. “You will not send that dispatch!” she pleaded.
“I must. You know that I must.”
“But—but—as you say—I saved your life. If it had not been for me you would not be alive to send anything. I think I have the right to ask you not to send it. Please! For my sake!”
The sweat crept out on Topham’s forehead, but his tones did not falter. “I must,” he answered.
“Yet listen first to me! I have the right to ask you at least to listen.” Her voice, deep and rich, had lost none of its intensity, nor her glorious eyes any of their appeal. Topham would have known them anywhere; in fact, it was by them that he had first recognized her when she flung herself upon him. “Grant me at least ten minutes,” she begged. “You will not refuse the first thing I ever asked of you!”
Topham glanced up to where a clock face marked the hour. “No!” he said, gently. “I will not refuse to listen to you. But I can give you but little more than the ten minutes you ask. My train leaves in an hour and the ferry is some distance away. I will listen, but I cannot yield. I have been ordered to Washington to tell the President what I know of the Countess de Ouro Preto.”
With round eyes the woman stared at him. “So!” she syllabled, under her breath. “So he suspects. What does he suspect?” she demanded fiercely.