“Her father, my elder brother, lived in Poland’s happiest tomb—in German Poland—”
He stopped abruptly and gave a bitter little laugh.
“His home took fire one night and burned to the ground. By decree of his Imperial master he was not permitted to build a dwelling on his own land. He loved this land, poor fool. His wife and babies loved it. He couldn’t be dragged away. He took refuge in a barn. Through the summer they managed to live without a fire inside. They cooked in the open. But when the winter came and the snows fell, he was forced to smuggle a little stove into the barn to boil some eggs and cabbage and make tea for his children. He hid the stove in a deep hole under the floor. Ten days later an officer of the Imperial government, passing, saw the smoke, forced his way in and uncovered the secret. The stove had made the barn a dwelling and he had forfeited his estate and his liberty. He fought—as any man with a soul must fight—for his own! The end was sure. He shot the officer. But there were legions of these Imperial soldiers. They assaulted his frail barricade and riddled his body with bullets. His faithful wife died with him. And little Zonia and Marya were sent to me in free America. And so you see I lack faith in some men—”
He stopped abruptly at the sight of Waldron’s heavy face with its arctic smile.
The millionaire lifted his hat, bowed slightly and disappeared from the doorway.
“Come with me to Mr. Waldron’s house, we must have a final conference there—”
“Waldron’s house?” he asked incredulously.
“Certainly. His library has become our campaign headquarters—”
“You’ll have to excuse me—”
“But I won’t excuse you. We’re going to fight this thing out today.”