"I am glad," I answered, "that you appreciate our position. With regard to the present custody of the child, which I take it is what you want to discuss with us, our minds are practically made up. My friend and I have both agreed that we will continue the charge of her until she is claimed by someone who is in a position to do so openly—someone, in short, who has a legal right."
The Baron nodded gravely.
"An excellent decision," he said. "No one could possibly quarrel with it. Yet it is a privilege to be able to tell you some facts which may perhaps affect your point of view. I can explain to you why this open claim is not made."
"We are here," I answered, "to listen to whatever you may have to say."
We—Allan and I—were dining with the Baron at Claridge's. An appointment, which he had begged us to make, had been changed into a dinner invitation at his earnest request. There was a likelihood, he told us, of his being summoned abroad at any moment, and he was particularly anxious not to leave the hotel pending the arrival of a cablegram. So far his demeanour had been courtesy and consideration itself, but under the man's geniality and almost excessive bonhomie both Allan and myself were conscious of a certain nervous impatience, only partially concealed. Whatever proposal he might have to make to us, our acceptance of it was without doubt a matter of great importance to him. The more we realized this, the more we wondered.
"I only wish," he said with emphasis, "that it was within my power to lay the cards upon the table before you, to tell you the whole truth. I do not think then that you would hesitate for a single second. But that I cannot do. The honour of a great house, Mr. Greatson, is involved in this matter, into which you have been so strangely drawn. I must leave blanks in my story which you must fill in for yourselves, you and Mr. Mabane. There are things which I may not—dare not—tell you. If I could, you would wonder no longer that those who desire to take over the charge of the child wish to do so without publicity, and without any appeal to the courts."
"The Archduchess," I remarked, "gave me some hint as to the nature of these difficulties."
The Baron emptied his glass and called for another bottle of wine. Then he looked carefully around him, a quite unnecessary precaution, for our table was in a remote corner of the room, and there were very few dining.
"It is no longer," he said, "a matter of surmise with us as to who the child you call Isobel de Sorrens really is. She is of the House of Waldenburg. She carries her descent written in her face, a hall-mark no one could deny. Upon the Archduchess and others of her great family must rest always the shadow of a grave stigma so long as the child remains in the hands of strangers, an alien from her own country. The Archduchess wishes at once, and quietly, to assume the charge of her. She is conscious of your services; she feels that you have probably saved the child from a fate which it is not easy to contemplate calmly. She authorizes me, therefore, to treat with you in the most generous fashion."
"That is a phrase," I remarked, "which I do not altogether understand."