“So you say,” she jeered.
Topham glanced round. The long room was nearly empty, and what occupants it had were collected at the broad windows staring out into the street.
“Countess!” he said, swiftly. “I do not know in what plot you are engaged. I can not conceive what it may be. But I am very certain that any plot in which Germany and Japan are concerned; any plot that leads German emissaries to stir up mobs to murder Japanese in San Francisco—”
“It was not murder,” pantingly.
“Was it not? I hope not? But that was the plain intent—”
“No! No! The Japanese knew. They were ordered—” she broke off.
“Of course! I knew that. Colonel Hakodate would not have been there except under orders. Yet it was murder—”
“No! It was war!”
Topham paused. “Perhaps!” he acquiesced, after an instant. “Perhaps! Murder seems to me no less murder when done by the orders of an Emperor. But it is not for me to judge. Nor will I try to question you—not even about the murder at the door of the Embassy in Berlin. God knows I shall have enough to tell the President without taking advantage of your confessions. But anything that can bring about such occurrences as I have seen tonight is a thing that no officer can keep from his chief.”
“But—but if I tell you that your President would not be interested? If I tell you that this is not at all an affair for the United States? What then? Will you believe me?”