VIA BERLIN

“With baited breath the two men waited”—Page [103].

VIA BERLIN

BY
CRITTENDEN MARRIOTT
Author of
“Sally Castleton, Southerner”, etc.

ROBERT J. SHORES
NEW YORK

Copyright, 1917, by
ROBERT J. SHORES, Publisher
New York

VIA BERLIN

PREFACE

The veil of diplomacy screens many secrets—most of them for many years. But the veil is not impenetrable; from time to time a corner lifts, disclosing a fact long-suspected but never quite comprehended, a fact that fits into a history thitherto incomplete.

So of this tale! Its substance is not altogether new. For years rumors of it have floated in and out of diplomatic antechambers in half truths and partial explanations that lacked the master key that would give them form and coherence. Now, now when the event itself is well-nigh forgotten, comes the great war to supply the key to the puzzle—the missing fragment, round which all the other fragments range themselves in one consistent whole.

Fancy? Guesswork? Gossip? Perhaps. The veil has dropped again and much may still be hidden behind it. But those who read the tale in the light of later events—of events of yesterday and events still in progress—are likely to put more faith in it than in many of the solemn lies of history.

VIA BERLIN

CHAPTER I

The Secretary of State leaned back in his chair and studied the young man before him. “Sit down, Mr. Topham,” he said at last.

Topham sat down. He was a good-looking young fellow, soldierly and straight as a ramrod, but without the stiffness that usually goes with a military carriage. His tanned face and, in fact, his whole bearing spoke of an out-door life—probably a life on the sea. Such an occupation was also indicated by his taciturnity, for he said nothing, though the secretary waited long, as if to give him a chance to speak.

Finally the secretary seemed satisfied. “Mr. Topham,” he said, “I have asked you to call on me for a purpose not connected, so far as I see at present, with your mission to Japan. Concerning that, I have nothing to add to the instructions already given you. Your reports will, of course, be to the Secretary of the Navy and you will of course not forget that your duties as naval attaché to our embassy at Tokio include the sending of any political information you may be able to pick up, in addition to such naval and military details as you may consider of importance. You speak Japanese, I believe?”

Topham bowed. “A little,” he replied, modestly.

“More than a little, I understand,” corrected the Secretary. “Doubtless you will find your knowledge of great advantage to you in your work. It is not of this, however, but of something quite different that I wish to speak.”

The Secretary paused, as if to give the young man a chance, but the latter said nothing. He merely waited courteously until the Secretary resumed.

“Have you any special preference as to your route to Japan?” he asked.

Topham shook his head. “Very little,” he answered. “I have scarcely had time. I supposed vaguely that I should go by San Francisco, because that was the most direct route, but it makes no difference to me.”

“I should like you to go by Europe and the Suez Canal. Have you any personal reason for desiring to go by Berlin?”

“Berlin? I don’t know! Er—Isn’t Mr. Rutile secretary of embassy there?”

The secretary’s eyebrows went up a trifle. “Yes!” he answered. To Topham his voice sounded a little sharp.

“He was at Annapolis with me, but resigned shortly after being graduated. We were always chums and I should be very glad to see him again.”

“Very well! That will serve as an excellent excuse for your choice of route. Kindly indicate to Admiral Brownson of the Bureau of Navigation your desire to proceed by way of Berlin, and he will issue the necessary orders. You will find that these will direct you to proceed with due diligence via Berlin to Brindisi, where you will join the U. S. S. Nevada as watch officer, relieving Lieutenant Shoreham, who is to be invalided home. You will proceed on the Nevada to Manila, where you will be detached, and will proceed at once to Tokio.”

The Secretary paused and picked a long official document before him. “You might mention your plans to any officer or others whom you chance to meet. I wish your choice of route to appear as natural as possible. You understand?”

Topham bowed. “I understand, sir,” he replied.

“Very good. Now, Mr. Topham, permit me to ask whether your mention of Mr. Rutile just now was purely accidental or whether you had any information that I wanted you to take a confidential message to him.”

Topham laughed. “Do you really?” he asked. “No! Mr. Secretary! I had no idea or information to that effect. It was altogether a coincidence, I assure you.”

“Ah! I was beginning to wonder if there was a leak in my office. Well! Mr. Topham, I wish you would take this packet and deliver it with your own hands in private to Mr. Rutile. You must not let even the ambassador know that you are carrying documents of any kind. No one is to know, except Mr. Rutile and yourself. You understand?”

“Surely, sir.”

“Very good. Can you leave for New York tonight?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Please do so! I am sorry to curtail your stay in Washington, but there is no time to lose. Your passage has been taken on the steamer Marlatic, which leaves for Hamburg tomorrow morning. Make all the speed you can to Brindisi, remembering, however, that it is better to lose a day or two than by any undue haste to cast doubt on the credibility of your visit to Berlin. The Nevada will wait for you, though she is badly needed at Manila.”

“I understand, sir!”

The secretary cleared his throat. “You will understand, Mr. Topham,” he went on, “that I do not make a messenger out of you without good cause. It is very important that these documents should reach Mr. Rutile promptly and secretly. Probably you will make the trip without the least misadventure. Remember, however, that there are people who would be exceedingly anxious to get a look at these papers if they should learn of their existence. I cannot warn you of them specifically, because I do not know who they are. We have tried to keep secret the fact that any papers are being sent, and this is one reason for choosing you. I think we have succeeded, but one can never tell. If the fact has gotten out attempts may be made to take the papers from you either by fraud or violence. I do not know how far the people who want them would go in their efforts to rob you, but it is quite possible that they might go to the limit. Be warned, therefore, and be prepared to frustrate any attempt of any sort whatever. You understand, Mr. Topham?”

Topham stood up. “I think so, sir,” he replied.

“Very good. Here is the packet.” The Secretary passed it over. “That is all, Mr. Topham. Good luck.” He rose, and held out his hand.

Topham bowed and took his departure. Obedient to the secretary’s instructions he went along the corridor to the offices of the Bureau of Navigation of the Navy Department, and explained to the admiral in charge his desire to go via Berlin. Evidently the affair was cut and dried, for his orders were made out and placed in his hands in an amazingly few minutes.

While he waited for them he mentioned to several navy friends the route that he would take and his reasons for desiring it, and made inquiries concerning the officer whom he was to relieve. Later, when, orders in hand, he made his way to the entrance of the building he met an old newspaper friend, to whom he casually mentioned his prospective journey.

Under the big portico he stopped and drew a long breath. Events had moved so fast in the last few hours that he was almost bewildered. He had only reached Washington about noon on that same day, having been detached from his ship at Hampton Roads. On his arrival, he had been questioned concerning his reported acquaintance with the Japanese language, and had been notified to prepare to leave at once for Tokio as naval attaché to the embassy there. He had received detailed instructions, both written and oral, as to the duties of his post; and then had been sent to the Secretary of State for further confidential instructions which had taken the shape described.

His watch showed that barely five hours had elapsed since he had entered the building, with no thought either of Japan or Berlin in his mind. And now he was practically en route for both. The rapidity of the thing made his head swim. “Almost like war times,” he muttered. “Great Scott! I wonder if we really are going to have trouble with the Japs!”

With a shrug of his shoulders he dismissed the matter from his mind. It was no business of his for the moment at least. Again he looked at his watch. “Half-past five o’clock,” he muttered, hesitating.

He need not leave for New York before midnight, and the temptation was strong upon him to spend a few hours in looking up the friends he had made during his tour of duty at the Capital City two years before. They were very good friends, many of them, and he would enjoy meeting them.

Only one thing made him pause and that was the thought of Lillian Byrd—if she still were Lillian Byrd. She had played with him, laughed at him, and tossed him over for a wealthier man. When she did so, he had asked for sea duty and had gotten it. He believed that the two years he had spent afloat had healed the wound, and yet he hesitated to risk testing it. Everything and every one he would see would remind him of the days when he lived in a fool’s paradise. Why should he torture himself with the vain recollection. He would not! He would take the next train for New York and leave Washington with its friends, foes, and sweethearts behind him.

An hour later he was speeding northward.

CHAPTER II

Topham was on board the Marlatic in good time the next morning.

He found himself in the midst of a jolly laughing throng that crowded and pushed and hugged and kissed and wept a little sometimes, but that the most part gave itself up to a perpetual chattering, like a flock of magpies—with more noise but with little more sense. All sorts of people were there, from the brandnew bride on her honeymoon to the gray old lady who was taking her granddaughter abroad; from the Cook’s tourist to the blasé young man who talked airily about crossing the “pond” and the grumpy globe trotter who hated the noise and confusion with his whole heart.

Topham leaned on the rail of the hurricane deck and watched the crowd idly. Somehow he felt lonely. Everybody else had friends; he seemed alone in having no one to see him off. It struck him suddenly that his life was a very lonely one. If Lillian Byrd had not proved faithless—

His ranging eyes fell upon a girl who was just coming up the plank in the wake of a granite-faced chaperone, and the current of his thoughts snapped short off. She was young, scarcely more than twenty, he judged, but there was something about her—he scarcely knew what—that set his pulses to pounding. With his whole strength he stared, and, as though drawn by his glance, the girl suddenly lifted her face and looked directly at him.

For an instant his heart stood still, then raced as it had never raced before, not even when Lillian Byrd had smiled at him in days gone by.

Never had he seen such eyes. They held him, enthralled him, with a magic that went beyond any reasoned process of the human brain. They seemed to fill the girl’s whole face—to fill it so that Topham thought he did not notice its other features; though later, he found that he could picture its every detail—the great masses of red-black hair; the clear dusky skin with a rose hiding in each cheek; the nose, chin, and teeth in keeping—not regular, not perfect according to canons of art, but compelling; a face for which men die.

Recklessly the navy officer stared—stared till the red flamed in the girl’s cheek, and she stumbled, her trembling fingers loosing their hold upon the rail.

She must have said something, though Topham could not hear her, for the hard-faced chaperone turned and caught her arm. Topham saw her shake her head in negation to some question. The next instant she looked up once more. But not as before! Coldly her glance swept Topham’s face, as coldly as if he did not exist. Then, before he could even attempt to catch her eyes, she had stepped upon the deck and was hidden from his view.

Topham drew his breath gaspingly. He had been holding it for quite a minute, unknowingly. His thoughts ran riot. Who was she? Who was she? What was her race, her state, her name? Her face bespoke a southern parentage; the blood that burned beneath it cried aloud of tropic heat. But her blue eyes were of the north. And the chaperone by her side could be nothing else than German—a veritable grenadier.

Certainly they were people of distinction in their own land—probably in any land. The purser might know. He would go and ask.

The purser was affable but tremendously busy. Yes, he knew the lady. She had crossed on the Marlatic a few weeks before. She was a Senorita Elsa Ferreira, a Brazilian lady who was connected with a famous German family. The lady with her was the Baroness Ostersacken. If Mr. Topham wanted any more information, he would endeavor to oblige him later on. At the present moment, however, in the hurry of departure, he—

Topham thanked him and went on deck, feeling the throb of the propeller beneath his feet as he did so. The steamer was in midstream heading toward the lower bay and the open sea.

For an hour or more Topham paced the deck hoping in vain for another sight of the girl who had so fascinated him. The wind was blowing strongly, and as the Marlatic approached Sandy Hook, she began to pitch with, the motion of the Atlantic rollers, and her passengers began to disappear. When she crossed the bar all but a handful had deserted the decks. Many seats were vacant when the gong rang for luncheon, and as Miss Ferreira did not appear, Topham began to fear that she was a poor sailor who would keep her cabin all throughout the voyage.

All afternoon he paced the deck despite the increasing unpleasantness of the weather. Darkness fell early and when he came up from dinner and from a tour of the main saloon without seeing anything of the girl, he was forced to abandon hope of finding her that night.

As he leaned grumpily over the rail watching the dim white caps that chased each other athwart the course of the ship, one of the few passengers on deck came and leaned by his side.

“It makes rough, eh! senor?” said the man. “We shall have storm? What you think?”

At the soft Spanish accent, Topham looked quickly up and recognized a Spanish-looking personage whom he remembered having seen crossing the gang plank.

“Oh! no!” he replied, lightly. “I think not. It’s damp and cold and unpleasant, but not stormy. Tomorrow will probably be clear.”

“That is good. I no like the storm. It is bad for the—the stomach, do you say, senor? I no get sick, but I feel sorry for the others.” He took out a package of cigarettes and offered them to Topham. “You smoke, senor?” he asked.

Cigarettes were not Topham’s failing, but he helped himself nevertheless. He was lonely and wanted companionship. Besides, the man seemed to be a Spanish-American and anything from Spanish-America had a special charm for Topham since he had heard that Miss Ferreira was from that part of the world.

For a few moments the two men puffed in silence, chatting of indifferent subjects. Then the ship pitched more heavily than usual and the other gulped.

“I—I no get sick,” he protested. “I am old sailor. But I—I think I eat something for dinner that not agree with me. I—I think I go below.” He slouched heavily away.

Topham did not laugh. With astonishment he had suddenly discovered that he too was feeling qualmy. The sensation was so novel, so utterly unlooked for, so hatefully amazing that he almost laughed.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “I’m feeling queer myself. I didn’t know that any sea could make me sick, but—Good Lord!”

The sensations had grown stronger with unexampled rapidity. In almost a moment they became acute. A fog came before his eyes and his senses actually reeled. Desperately he clung to the rail, feeling certain that he should fall if his grip loosened.

How long he stood there more than half unconscious he never knew. He was roused by a woman’s voice, speaking excitedly.

“But he is ill! He is very ill! Quick! catch him!”

Dimly he heard a faint rush of feet; then an arm was slipped under his. “This way, senor,” pleaded a voice—a very soft, musical voice. “Just a step—just a step. Now sit down! There!”

Guided by some one’s arm Topham reeled for an immeasurable distance. Then he fell also immeasurably. Finally, finding himself in a chair he closed his eyes.

Only a few seconds later, it seemed, he opened them again and found himself stretched in a steamer chair. His head felt queer and his stomach shaky. As he gazed stupidly around, a woman who was bending over him straightened up.

“It’s all right!” said the voice. “He’s coming to.”

Instinctively Topham struggled to his feet despite the girl’s protests. He could see little more than her figure in the semi-darkness, but he nevertheless felt sure that it was she. “Miss Ferreira!” he murmured.

“Oh! you are better! senor! I am glad.” Her English was perfect except for a soft Castilian burr.

Topham strove to answer, and succeeded better than he hoped. “Yes! I’m better. Thanks to you! senorita. Heavens, I don’t know what got into me! I haven’t been seasick since—since—. Is this your chair?”

“Yes! But do not leave it, I beg. I had just come on deck when I noticed that you were ill. Perhaps you ate something for dinner that disagreed with you.”

“Perhaps!” ruefully. “That’s the usual excuse for getting seasick, you know. However—Good Heavens!”

Topham’s heart almost stopped beating. He whipped his hand into his inner coat pocket and found—nothing! Desperately he snatched at another pocket—and another!

With distended eyes the girl stared at him. “You have lost something, senor?” she queried.

“Lost! Lost! Good Heavens, I—” Suddenly Topham dropped his hands and laughed aloud. “Oh! What an idiot I am!” he cried. “No! I haven’t lost anything, senorita. I must be daffy. I was looking for something, forgetting that I had put it away for safe-keeping.”

CHAPTER III

Topham woke the next day with a splitting headache and a slight but persistent nausea—about what might have been expected after his experience of the night before. The sea had gone down considerably and though the steamer still rolled somewhat, it no longer pitched to any degree that should have been in the least disquieting to an at all seasoned stomach. So Topham rolled out of bed and got on deck as soon as possible. The fresh air slowly restored him to his normal condition and by noon little remained to remind him of his humiliating experience.

He saw nothing of Senorita Ferreira, and though he kept a continual hopeful watch for her, he yet did not altogether regret her absence as it gave him a chance to think things out.

All the forenoon he lay in his steamer chair drinking in the sea-air and pondering the situation. In some points his illness had been unlike any seasickness he had ever heard of; though not entirely dissimilar to some cases of which he had heard. He felt certain that it was not an entirely natural illness, but was very uncertain whether it had resulted from an accidental bane in something he had eaten or whether he had been deliberately drugged. If he had been drugged, it could have been done with no other purpose than to rob him of the packet confided to him by the Secretary of State. He blessed the forethought that had led him to get the purser to lock it up in the ship’s safe. Struck by a sudden idea he went below and examined his baggage, but could discover no sign that it had been searched.

The incident, whether resulting from accident or design, brought home to him the seriousness of his errand. If he had really been the victim of a deliberate attempt at robbery, it proved that the cause of his journey to Berlin was no secret and that daring and unscrupulous foes were watching him. He had fooled them once, but the voyage was scarcely begun, and it was not conceivable that they would not follow up the attack. Topham was as brave as most men, but he felt himself at a serious disadvantage; his enemies knew him—probably knew all about him—and he knew nothing of them, neither their age nor their sex nor their number.

It behooved him to find them out if possible. Naturally his first thought was of the soft-spoken Spanish-American who had offered him a cigarette. What was in that cigarette, he wondered. Was anything in it? Had he really been unconscious and if so, for how long? Had he been practically so while he stood clutching the rail or had he only become so after he had been helped to the chair by Senorita Ferreira? Was she in the plot—if there was a plot? He could contemplate this last possibility calmly, for it never occurred to him to impute moral turpitude to those whose interests ran counter to his in a game of high politics such as this seemed to be.

Think as he might, however, he could not answer any of the questions that were puzzling him. All he could do was for the situation to develop itself. He would speak to the Spaniard, but he knew that he could hope to gain little by doing so. That gentleman, he was sure, would be provided with an unimpeachable defense.

As for Senorita Ferreira—Well! he had no real reason to suspect her—or anyone else, for that matter. Probably, indeed, she had come up in time to frighten off his real assailant.

“All’s well that ends well,” he decided, finally. “If my Dago friend really did drug me to get the packet, he got decidedly left. On the other hand, I’ve got an opening with the girl. I’ll take her innocence for granted till I see mighty good reason to do otherwise. I wonder where she is, by the way?”

It was not till afternoon, however that the girl came on deck.

She was alone and Topham went straight to her side. “Pardon me,” he said. “I want to thank you for your great kindness last night.”

The girl smiled at him. “I hope you feel better, senor!” she said.

“Much better! Seasickness is humiliating, but it isn’t lasting. I am all right, except that I am still a little shaky on my legs.” As he spoke Topham wobbled with what he hoped was artistic verisimilitude.

The girl uttered a little cry. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “You must not stand. Take this chair.” She indicated the one next to hers and Topham sank into it with a sigh of content.

Two hours later when the dinner gong sounded, the girl started and looked at her watch. “Good gracious!” she exclaimed. “How the day has gone. I make you my compliments, senor! You have made the time fly.”

She rose and Topham regretfully followed suit.

“I hope you will give me another opportunity, senorita,” he pleaded.

“But yes. Most certainly! I shall be charmed.” With a smile and a nod she was gone.

The most of the voyage—or as much of it as the proprieties and the Baroness Ostersacken would permit—Topham spent by Miss Ferreira’s side. Day after day the two watched the shadows shorten, vanish, and grow long once more. Night after night they saw the moon sail across the star-dusted sky, and watched the ripples break athwart her silvery reflection in the water. Day after day, night after night they grew into each other’s thoughts—while the Baroness Ostersacken played propriety in the background.

By the end of the voyage each had learned much about the other. Topham had learned that the girl was the daughter of a German mother and a Brazilian father and that she was returning from a trip to Rio Janiero, made in charge of her cousin the Baroness, to join her brother at Berlin. She, on the other hand, learned that Topham was a navy officer, en route for Tokio, who was going via Berlin to see an old friend, and would thence go to Brindisi to join his ship. Not a word nor a suggestion from either had reference to any papers he might carry.

Long before the end of the voyage Topham had made up his mind that this was the one girl in the world for him. His earlier affection for Lillian Byrd he had absolutely forgotten or remembered only to wonder that he should ever have mistaken it for real love. It was a very milk and water feeling contrasted with the madness that possessed him now.

Yet what to do? His orders were imperative and he must obey them to the last jot and tittle. Nothing must be allowed to prevent his reaching Berlin and delivering his packet to Rutile; nothing must be allowed to prevent him from reporting on board the Nevada at Brindisi four days later; and nothing must prevent him from reaching Japan and trying to get the information his government desired.

For the first time in his life the collar galled. Oh! to be free to take this woman in his arms and tell her that he loved her. He believed that he would not do so in vain. But he knew, none better, that he had no right to speak while bound for the antipodes. And if he could not speak he had no right to hint nor suggest nor attempt, however vaguely, to bind the girl’s fancy.

For another reason he was not free. His mysterious illness had not recurred, but neither had it been explained. Several times he had seen and twice he had spoken with his Spanish-American acquaintance, (whose name turned out to be Sebastian Gomez), but he had been able to find out nothing suspicious about him. And even if he had been convinced of the man’s guilt, he was still absolutely without reason to suspect Miss Ferreira of any complicity in it. Almost he had made up his mind that his illness had really been accidental. If his own interests alone had been concerned he would have dismissed the incident from his mind.

But not only his own interests were involved. His country had trusted him to carry a message safely to Berlin and he had no right to take any chance nor to neglect any precaution nor to disregard any threat, however slight, that might endanger his carrying out its behests. Until that packet was in Rutile’s hands, he must not involve himself with anyone—least of all with anyone on whom even the suggestion of suspicion could fall.

So he kept silent, even on the last evening of the voyage—even when he saw the sun rise beyond the distant line that marked Germany and the port of Cuxhaven, at the mouth of the Elbe, where he must leave the ship and finish his journey to Berlin by rail, to the destruction of all chance for further familiar intercourse. He had resolved on his course and he would stick to it at whatever cost. He would part from the girl without a word of love and discharge his duty to the last iota. Then—then he would get leave or resign if need be and come back to seek her. It was cold comfort to hope that he might find her still free, but it was all he had.

Rapidly Cuxhaven swelled in the perspective, and soon the steamer drew alongside the dock. As Topham watched the welcoming crowd, Miss Ferreira, standing by his side, gave a cry and began to wave her handkerchief. “See, senor!” she exclaimed. “My brother! Yonder! Herrman! Herrman!” she called.

A patch of white fluttered in the hands of a man on the pier; and the owner pressed forward, eager to get on board. Soon Topham saw him coming up the plank.

The navy officer drew aside to let sister and brother meet without intrusion. Later, Miss Ferreira called him and he stepped forward to be introduced.

Ferreira was very like his sister, but was tall and strong, almost as tall and strong, Topham judged, as he himself. He clasped the American’s hand warmly.

“I am delighted to meet you, senor,” he cried. “My sister tells me how much you have done to make her crossing pleasant. Do you go directly to Berlin, senor?”

Topham nodded. “Directly!” he replied.

“Then we shall be fellow passengers.”

“That will be pleasant. You came to take Miss Ferreira back, I suppose?”

But the Brazilian shook his head. “Not exactly,” he replied. “I came to bring her word that she must stop over in Hamburg, only two hours away. Beyond Hamburg we will go on without her.”

Without noticing that Topham had paled at his words the Brazilian glanced over the side.

“If you are ready, senor,” he remarked, turning back. “Perhaps we had better descend to the custom house.”

Topham hesitated. “If you’ll wait for just an instant,” he answered. “I’ll be with you. I want to speak to the purser.”

Ferreira nodded, and Topham disappeared. In a few minutes he was back. A slight bulge above his right breast showed the presence of a packet of some kind and an occasional slight lift of his coat in the fresh breeze, showed that it consisted of a big official-looking envelope.

But if either Ferreira or his sister noticed it they did not let the fact appear.

CHAPTER IV

The ride to Hamburg was short and pleasant. There the whole party disembarked; Elsa and the Baroness to remain, and Ferreira and Topham to take another train for Berlin.

In the waiting-room Topham made his farewells. Ferreira had gone to see after the baggage and the Baroness had fallen a little behind, so that the two were practically alone. Briefly, almost coldly, for fear his passion might break away in spite of himself, Topham pressed the girl’s hand and bade her adieu.

“Good-by, Senorita,” he said, slowly. “I have to thank you for a very delightful voyage. Is there no chance at all that I may see you in Berlin. I shall be there till day after tomorrow.”

The girl shook her head. If she were piqued by Topham’s self-restraint she did not show it. “I must stay in Hamburg for the present,” she answered, deliberately. “I shall not go to Berlin till much later. So this is really good-by, senor.”

“Good-by.” Topham clasped her extended hand; then turned away, afraid to trust himself further.

But the girl called him back. “Senor!” she exclaimed softly. “Senor!”

“Yes!”

“Listen! Be careful. Be very careful. Things—happen—to strangers sometimes. Be very careful, senor, till you are safe in Berlin.”

Topham stared. “I don’t understand,” he said.

“There is nothing to understand—except to be—careful. This country is not always altogether safe for strangers. Be careful—for my sake, senor.”

The girl’s voice broke and Topham started forward, flinging resolutions to the wind.

“Elsa,” he cried. “I—”

But the voice of Ferreira broke in. “Cab’s waiting, Elsa,” he called. “Come along! Hurry! Or you’ll make Senor Topham and me miss our train.”

Recalled to himself by the interruption, Topham raised the girl’s hand to his lips, then dropped it and saw her led away.

Soon Ferreira was back. “Quick, Senor Topham!” he called. “The train’s waiting.”

Many people apparently were going to Berlin, but few of them appeared to hold first-class tickets, and the two young men speedily found an empty carriage, in which they ensconced themselves.

Ferreira promptly leaned out of the window. “Here! guard,” he said, holding out his hand. “I don’t want to be bothered with other people! You understand!” A piece of silver changed hands and the Brazilian settled back.

Then he turned and nodded to Topham.

“We’ll try to keep this compartment to ourselves, senor,” he said. “I detest travelling shut in with three or four others. I suppose you agree with me.”

Topham answered that he did.

An instant later the guards began to run along the platform slamming the doors. Just before they reached the carriage that sheltered Topham, two Germans came running up. One of them grabbed the handle of the door and jerked it open, and both precipitated themselves into the carriage, despite the Brazilian’s strenuous protests.

“We have as good right here as you, nicht wahr?” asserted the foremost, seating himself without any ceremony. “This carriage is not reserved? What? It has no placard out? No!”

Ferreira fumed, pouring out so swift a torrent of guttural German that Topham, good German scholar as he was, could not understand one word in five. The intruders, however, clearly understood very well. Scornfully indifferent at first, they soon roused to the assault and apparently gave back as good as he sent.

In the middle of the dispute the train started, but neither Ferreira nor his adversary seemed to note that the case was closed. Hotter and hotter waxed the wordy war. Soon the two men were glaring at each other, shaking their fists and seeming on the point of flying at each other’s throats.

Topham watched the contest with twinkling eyes. If he had been in Italy or France, where men are supposed to be more excitable, the scene would not have seemed very strange to him. But that notoriously phlegmatic Germans should work themselves into a passion over such a trifle seemed to him amazing. He scarcely believed, however, that the quarrel would end in actual violence; and so, though ready to aid Ferreira (Elsa’s brother) if need arose, he sat still and looked on, letting a ghost of a smile flicker across his lips.

Instantly, with bewildering abruptness the other German leaned across the carriage, shaking his fist in the American’s face, and shouting something which Topham did not catch, but which he instinctively knew was insulting.

The navy officer flushed angrily, and the next moment the other launched a blow at his face.

Topham parried and struck back shrewdly. He landed, but before he could follow up his advantage, the other German precipitated himself upon him, and in an instant the carriage became a pandemonium of struggling, kicking, fighting men.

Topham was big and strong, but he had been taken unawares, and found himself pinned down in the seat in the grasp of men stronger than he. Ferreira, though he struggled, did so ineffectively, and both intruders were practically free to concentrate on the American. The bout ended with Topham and Ferreira on the floor with the two Germans sitting on top of them, panting.

The struggle had lasted for some time, and in the momentary hush that followed its cessation the shriek of the locomotive was heard, whistling for a stop.

None of the four moved as the train slowed down. Then the Germans stood up, releasing the others. “We leave here, Herren,” said the leader. “This is our address if you wish to carry matters further.” They both bowed, flung down their cards, and stepped out through the door that the guard opened for them.

Left alone, Ferreira and Topham arose slowly. Topham was humiliated and intensely angry, but he saw the futility of engaging in a further contest at that moment. In fact, he scarcely knew what to do. The crisis had come with such bewildering suddenness, and had been so surprising both in its inception and its results, that it had taken away his breath, both actually and figuratively. That such a thing should happen in a German railway carriage, of all places in the world, was to him almost too amazing for belief.

Meanwhile Ferreira had snatched up the cards. “They shall die for this,” he hissed. “Madre de Dios! But they shall die. I have friends here. They will act for you too, Senor Topham! Come! Let us seek them!” He made as if to leave the train.

But Topham shook his head. “Not for me,” he declared. “I don’t fight duels, not when I’m on duty, anyhow. Besides, I see little cause. They bested us fairly. Anyhow, it’s too late now.”

As a matter of fact, the train was moving again.

The Brazilian hesitated. Then suddenly he tore the cards to pieces and flung them out of the window. “So be it, Senor!” he acceded.

Topham glanced down at his clothes and found them whole, though badly rumpled. Suddenly he started, just as he had on the steamer the night he left New York, and thrust his hands into his inner pocket; then dropped it weakly to his side.

At his blank look Ferreira cried out: “You are hurt, senor!” he exclaimed.

Slowly the color came back to Topham’s face. “No!” he said. “Not—not—hurt! You—you don’t see an envelope—a big blue envelope—lying around anywhere, do you?” Dazedly he peered under the seats.

Ferreira aided him. “I hope it was not valuable, senor!” he ventured.

Slowly Topham shook his head. “Not intrinsically,” he answered. “But—but it was—of great personal value to me. Those men must have taken it. I suppose it is too late to find them?”

The Brazilian looked blank. “Dolt that I am!” he cried. “I destroyed the cards!”

Topham nodded. “Probably they would be useless, anyhow,” he muttered. “We will say no more about it, senor, if you will be so kind.”

The rest of the trip passed uneventfully. Topham was moody and said little, and Ferreira did not disturb him.

When Berlin was reached Ferreira leaped lightly from the train. “You will come to my hotel, and refresh yourself, senor; it is not so?” he invited.

But Topham shook his head. “Thank you,” he replied. “I must go first to the American Embassy. The secretary there is an old friend of mine. In fact I came by Berlin particularly to see him. So you will excuse me, senor.”

Ferreira bowed. “Ah!” he exclaimed. “El Senor Rutile! He is a friend of yours? A fine fellow, Rutile! Boni! I shall do myself the honor to call on you later. Auf wiedersehen, senor.”

With a nod and a bow he was gone.

Topham stared after him perplexedly. “I guess you were in it, my friend,” he syllabled, slowly; “and I guess you think you’ve won. But the game isn’t yours yet, not by a long shot.” He paused; then “God bless her,” he muttered. “She tried to save me! God bless her!”

CHAPTER V

“By Jove! Walter! I’m glad to see you.” Rutile sprang to his feet and hurried forward as Topham entered the office of the embassy. “How are you, old man?” he rattled on. “I heard you were coming, but didn’t expect you quite so soon. Must have had a quick trip!”

Topham shook hands, smilingly. No sign of distress on account of the missing papers clouded his eyes.

“Pretty quick,” he answered. “Glad to get here; however.”

Rutile turned. “Let me present you to the ambassador,” he said. “Your Excellency! This is Mr. Topham of the navy, an old friend of mine, en route to Tokio via Brindisi and Suez.”

Topham started and shot a glance of surprise at Rutile. Then he turned back to the ambassador, who smiled and put out his hand.

“I’m glad to see you, Mr. Topham,” he said, a little ponderously. “Isn’t it er—rather unusual to go from Washington to Tokio by way of Berlin?”

The ambassador’s tones were entirely casual, but Topham thought he detected some veiled meaning in them, perhaps because he was thinking of the secretary’s caution to say nothing to the ambassador about the papers placed in his charge. “Well! yes! it is unusual,” he answered. “You see the navy’s short of officers and has to make out as best it can. They are going to make me earn my passage to Tokio by serving as watch officer on the Nevada. She leaves Brindisi for Manila on Friday, and I’m to join her, so as to let one of her present officers be invalided home.”

“But even so, Berlin seems off your route.”

Topham laughed. “It is a little,” he assented. “But I had never been here and I wanted to see old Rutile, and so I persuaded the personnel bureau to make my orders read via Berlin. It isn’t much out of the way.”

“I see!” The ambassador rose. “I—er—thought at first that you might have brought me some special instructions?” His voice had a slight rising inflection at the end.

But Topham shook his head. “Nothing of the sort, I’m sorry to say, Your Excellency,” he replied.

“No? It’s just as well. Special instructions are usually unpleasant. I’ll be glad to see you at my house if your engagements will allow, Mr. Topham.” He turned to the secretary. “Just send my mail in to me, will you, Mr. Rutile?” he finished.

Rutile turned to a pile of mail that had evidently just been dumped on the table. “Here are two letters for you right on top,” he remarked, passing them over. “If I find any more, I’ll send them in.”

“Do!Mr. Topham, since you have come so far to see Mr. Rutile, I won’t interfere with your chat with him any longer.”

The ambassador looked from one young man to the other and his eyes twinkled; but he left the room with nothing more except a nod.

As soon as he was gone, Rutile turned to Topham. “Well! Let’s have it, old man!” he exclaimed.

Topham did not answer at once. He had drawn near the table and was staring at the pile of mail matter. “So this is how you get your mail,” he remarked, with apparent irrelevance.

“That! Oh! that isn’t official mail! That’s mostly letters and papers for tourists sent in care of the embassy. The official mail comes in a private bag. But let’s have those instructions.”

Topham’s eyebrows went up! “What instructions?” he demanded.

“The instructions you brought me from the Secretary of State, of course.”

“Oh! * * * How do you know I have any special instructions for you?”

“The department tipped it off by cable! Let’s have ’em.”

But Topham shook his head. “Hold on a minute!” he exclaimed. “I should like to understand this game, if you are at liberty to explain. Why in thunder is the Secretary of State sending you instructions by a navy officer instead of by the regular channels, and why is he sending you any instructions at all that he conceals from the ambassador?”

Rutile threw himself back in the chair. “Search me!” he replied cheerfully. “‘These are the Lord’s doings; they are wonderful in our sight!’ If I had to guess, though, I should say that the instructions you bring treat of a secret service matter which has nothing to do with ambassadorial duties—yet.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course not. But it’s like this! Ambassadors are usually highly polished, highly educated, highly ornate somebodies who have the money and the wish to put up a fine front. Their principal duties are to cultivate people, give dinners, and generally jolly things along. Besides, they come and go, and can’t be expected to know all the ins and outs of the game. We secretaries are more permanent, and we are expected to know it all—and to plan it. If we make a slip, the ambassador disavows us, and we are recalled. We are denounced as presumptuous underlings who have acted without authority—not worth quarreling over. Do you understand now?”

Topham nodded. “Yes! I begin to understand,” he said.

“All right! Now let’s have the papers.”

But Topham shook his head. “I haven’t any papers for you, Rutile!” he said soberly. “I did have, but—I haven’t now!”

Rutile stared at him. “Good Lord! Man! You haven’t lost them, have you?” he cried.

Topham hesitated. “No!” he answered, at last. “I haven’t lost them. But I became a little alarmed about their safety and so I put them into an envelope and addressed them to John Smith in care of the embassy here. I carried a dummy in my pocket. The purser said they would reach here about as soon as I did, and unless I am mistaken they are in that envelope close to your hand on the table there. Allow me!”

The navy officer reached over and picked up an envelope. He opened it and took out a packet which he handed to Rutile.

“Take your instructions,” he said.

Rutile threw himself back in his chair. “Well! I’m d—d!” he observed.

“Very likely!”

“But—but why did you— What happened to—”

“Nothing! Nothing at all! There were some slight incidents—nothing of any importance.”

“Oh! Nothing of any importance. Humph!” Rutile’s tones were sarcastic; but he understood that for some reason Topham did not wish to speak frankly, and so he proceeded cautiously.

“Er—voyage quite pleasant, I suppose?” he questioned.

Topham laughed ruefully. “Oh! Yes,” he answered, slowly. “Yes! Very pleasant. Delightful, in fact! But, confound it, old man! Do you know, I was seasick? Think of it! Seasick! Why, I haven’t been seasick for ten years—not since my maiden cruise in Academy days. But I got it this time good and proper!”

“Ah!” Rutile dropped his eyes, and began playing with a paper weight. “How long did it last?” he questioned, carefully.

“Couple of days! It caught me right after dinner the first night out. I went really dizzy. Fortunately it was cloudy and there weren’t any people on deck, and my shameful secret became known to few. A girl who happened to be there offered me a chair and I lay in it till I could get to my cabin.”

“Humph! It’s lucky you didn’t go to sleep in that chair—with these papers in your pocket!”

“I did go to sleep. Had quite a—er—nap, I suspect. But the papers weren’t in my pocket. The purser had them in his safe.”

“Oh! I see!” Rutile laughed shortly. “Of course your humiliating experience spoiled any chance for a flirtation with the charming girl who—she was charming, of course.”

“She was, emphatically!”

“What was her name?”

“Miss Elsa Ferreira!”

“What!”

“Miss Elsa Ferreira. Do you know her?”

“Do I? Well—But that can’t be all. Were there any more—er—incidents?”

“Well, yes!” Topham spoke carefully. “Yes. There was one other small occurrence. I came up from Cuxhaven with her brother.”

“Ah! You were—alone—with him?”

“Only for a few minutes. Two other men insisted on butting into our compartment. Ferreira got quite excited in his efforts to keep them out, but they would come in. Of course, they had as much right as we did. But Ferreira wouldn’t stand for it and actually came to blows with them. In fact I was involved and—I got the worst of it, too!”

With a chuckle Rutile threw himself back in his chair. “Well! I will be d—d!” he observed. “You don’t mean you had a regular fight, do you?”

Topham grinned. “Well! Not exactly. The intruders simply sat down on Ferreira and me. We weren’t in it, really. Then at the next stop they threw down their cards and left the train.”

“Their cards? What were their names?”

“I don’t know! Ferreira—by the way, he said he knew you—Ferreira—er—lost them out of the window!” replied Topham, guilelessly. “Later I discovered that somehow I had lost my dummy package in the scuffle.”

“Oh! Oh!—And the lady? What became of her?”

“She stayed in Hamburg. You understand, old man, these things that I’ve been telling you are mere incidents of travel, of no real consequence. You do understand that, don’t you?”

Rutile choked. “Oh! yes! certainly,” he acceded. “Now, if you’ll excuse me for a moment I’ll see just what these instructions are about.”

“All right!”

Rutile examined the carefully placed seals, made sure that they were intact, and then broke them and drew out the papers inside. A moment later he gave a low whistle.

“Say, old man?” he exclaimed. “It’s just as I thought. You came over with—with—”

The sentence was never finished. While the secretary hesitated for a word, the door of the room was flung open and a young man rushed in and dropped into a chair.

CHAPTER VI

The young man who flung into the embassy as if he owned it was small, round and jolly, with a twinkle in his eye that persisted even when, as at the moment in question, he was fuming with anger and disgust.

“Give me a drink, for God’s sake, Rutile,” he cried. “I’ve been talking to Ouro Preto and I need a bracer. Of all the—”

“Hello, Risdon!” Topham stepped forward and held out his hand. “Hello! old man!” he repeated, smilingly.

“By all the gods! Walter Topham! Where in thunder did you come from?” He grabbed the other’s hand and wrung it warmly. “Say!” he went on, “We’ve simply got to celebrate this! Rutile. Are you going to order those drinks, or shall I?”

Rutile was again looking through the papers brought by Topham. Without raising his eyes he reached over and pounded a bell. “Shut up or talk to Topham till I finish this,” he ordered.

“What you reading? A love letter?”

“Lord! no! Nothing half so important. Only some stuff from the State Department.”

“Oh! That! Let it go!” He turned back to Topham. “By George old man! I haven’t seen you since I bilged from the U. S. N. A. Who’d a-thought we three would ever meet here? You, the savey man of the class; Rutile, the—the—I’ll be darned if I know what; and me the only one of the three who’s done a lick of work since we got out of the Academy—and then only because Uncle Sam gently but firmly refused to support me. But, say, Topham! How’d you get here? In command of a canal boat? Why don’t you speak up instead of making a quiet man break his rule against talking?”

Topham smiled. In fact, he had been smiling ever since he clasped Risdon’s hand, quite content to let the other rattle on unchecked. But at Risdon’s direct appeal, he began to speak, only to pause as a darkey servant thrust his head in the door.

Rutile glanced up. “Three beers, Caesar,” he ordered, and resumed his writing.

“Three beers!” protested Risdon, disgustedly. “Good Heavens! Rutile! Three beers! And you claim to be from Kentucky.” Then, seeing that the secretary was not listening, he turned again to Topham.

“Where’d you say you were going to?” he demanded.

“I didn’t say. But I’m on my way to Tokio as naval attaché. Leave here tomorrow night; join the Nevada at Brindisi Friday; go with her to Manila as watch officer and then by passenger steamer to Japan. Stopped over here a day to see Rutile.”

Caesar re-entered with the beer, but with him he brought a tall dark bottle and three small glasses. “Ain’t goin’ to offer beer to no navy officer or newspaper gen’mens”, he muttered. “Ain’t a-going to do it, nohow, massa Rutile.”

Rutile grinned and laid down his papers. “Help yourselves, fellows!” he said. “Maybe Caesar knows your tastes better than I do. Prosit!” He lifted his stein and gulped the liquid. “Now, Risdon,” he went on, “You may confide your troubles to Uncle Sam. What’s troubling the special commissioner of the New York Gazette to his Imperial Majesty Wilhelm and the other crowned heads of Europe, Asia, and Africa?”

An expression of disgust came over the correspondent’s face. “Don’t be funny,” he said, severely. “If you think staggering under that tom-fool appellation is any joke you’re mistaken. Say! Rutile! What do you think of that fellow Ouro Preto, anyhow? Reveal your inmost soul—not necessarily for publication, but as an evidence of good sense. Speak the truth. There are no ladies present, so you needn’t restrain yourself.”

Rutile stretched out his legs and grinned. “I don’t like Ouro Preto much myself,” he answered; “but plenty of others do. What’s he done to you?”

“It isn’t what he’s done; its what he is! He’s always making up to me—God knows what for. I don’t like him.”

“Natural antipathy, eh! Ouro Preto is a half German, half Brazilian count, Topham, who’s spending the winter in Berlin and who’s trod on Risdon’s toes somehow. Probably refused to admit the right of the American press to pry into his inmost concerns.”

“Refused, nothing!” shouted the reporter. “It’s my business to read men, and it ought to be yours, Rutile, if you were with your salt. We’re all as God made us, if not worse. But I give you fair warning to watch out for Ouro Preto. He’ll do you dirt if he gets the chance.”

Rutile did not laugh, though he looked as though he would much have liked doing so. The correspondent’s rhodomontade did not seem to impress him greatly. “And the villain still pursued her,” he remarked, casually.

“Oh! all right. Go your own way. Only don’t say I didn’t warn you. I’m not the only one who thinks so. If it wasn’t for his sister he’d be kicked out mucho pronto! Say! Topham! You never met his sister, did you?”

Topham shook his head but did not speak.

“Well! You don’t want to! Not if you’ve got a girl back home and want to remember her. The countess catches all sorts and every sort. She’s the prettiest, wittiest, beautifulest—”

Before Topham could shape an answer, a passing band struck up one of the waltzes of the day, and with its strains there rose before the navy officer’s mind a face—the face of the girl with whom he had sat upon the steamer two nights before and listened to the band play that same waltz.

The music died away in the distance, and he looked up at Risdon. “When’s the wedding to be?” he laughed.

“The wedding? God forbid! I’d as soon marry a catamount. Not that this particular catamount would marry me or any one else less than a duke—if she and that brother of hers get what they’re after. But that doesn’t make her any the less entertaining—when she has something to gain by it. She worked me all right—once.” The correspondent winced at the recollection. “Wait till you see her!”

“Probably I won’t. I must be off tomorrow, you know. Who are they—she and her brother—anyway? And what are they after?”

“After? Trouble! Big trouble sure! Rutile won’t admit it—for publication. Says I’m a yellow reporter, you know. But it’s so, all the same. But, say, I’ve got to go up to the war office. Come along with me and I’ll tell you the yarn!”

“Yes! Do! Go along, Topham. I’ve got an hour’s work that must be done, and then I’m at your service. And—by the way, when you cross the bridge, pick Risdon up by the nape of the neck and drop him gently into the River Spree. Then come back to lunch.”

Risdon jumped up. “That’s American bluntness, I suppose,” he exclaimed. “Ouro Preto said the other day that Americans had no more manners than a wet dog. I came near knocking him down for it, but I’ll be darned if I don’t believe he was right. Come along, Topham.”

The two young men clattered down the stairs into the broad Unter den Linden. Crowds thronged the sidewalk and a double current of miscellaneous vehicles moved unceasing between the curbs. Everything on wheels was represented, from a 60-horsepower automobile to an oxcart. Laughing and chatting Risdon led Topham through the maze, pointing out famous men and famous places with comments, the least of which, if overheard by any one of the stiff-necked German officers they passed, would have brought forth an immediate challenge.

After a while he pointed to an ornate stone pile. “That’s where our pretty countess lives,” he remarked, airily. “I haven’t seen her for two or three weeks. Wonder where she’s keeping herself?”

“The countess Ouro Preto? Oh! yes! You were going to tell me something about her, weren’t you?” questioned Topham, carelessly.

“Sure! * * * it’s this way. She and her brother are the children of the Count Ouro Preto, Governor of the state of Rio Grande do Sul, Brazil. They are also the grandchildren of a former Duke of Hochstein, by a second, morganatic, marriage with a ballet dancer, by whom he had one daughter. All the duke’s children by his first and royal consort died. All his nephews died. Everybody died, except the morganatic daughter, who married a Brazilian, the Count of Ouro Preto, and went to South America with him. The ducal line became extinct, for of course this daughter’s descendants had no standing. Now comes Ouro Preto and his sister, children of this daughter, backed by enormous wealth, and petition the Emperor to revive the duchy in their behalf. You see, her marriage to the duke was proper and religious and all that, and was only morganatic because the duke was chief of a mediatized German house, and couldn’t marry except among his princely beery peers. Now the Ouro Pretos have faked up a royal pedigree for the ballet dancer. If they can make it stick, they establish her moral claim to the duchy, and gain a sort of backstairs standing for themselves. Of course the ballet dancer pedigree is faked; everybody says it’s faked; the Kaiser probably knows it’s faked; but that won’t cut any ice if Wilhelm decides to declare it established. And everybody is on pins and needles to know whether he is going to do it or not. Ouro Preto has offered to buy back the ducal estates, which were escheated to the Emperor half a century ago, at two million dollars, which is about three times their value, and to spend two million more on beautifying the tiny capital of Hochstein. It’s all a matter of price. Lord, Topham! I used to think we had a monopoly of graft on the other side of the water. But we haven’t. Not a bit of it. We buy senatorships and these people buy titles. The same longing for power, the same craving for notoriety, the same love of display exists in the U. S. A. as here. Ouro Preto wants to be a sovereign duke and he’s got the scads to pay for it. It’s up to the kaiser to say whether he bids high enough. And I shouldn’t wonder if the Countess Elsa would turn the scale.”

Suddenly the reporter broke off. He clutched Topham by the arm and dragged him to the edge of the pavement. “Stand still a minute,” he ordered, as he rested his hand on the navy officer’s shoulder and raised himself on tiptoe. “Yes! it’s she,” he exclaimed, an instant later. “You big men will never realize how useful your inches are till you try being a little man in a crowd. You say you have never seen the fair Elsa, Countess del Ouro Preto? Well! You are about to have that pleasure. Yonder she comes, in that red motor.”

Walter looked where the other pointed. Then something seemed to grip him by the throat, and he caught at the journalist’s shoulder to steady himself.

The motor was very near, and he could see its occupants distinctly. They were two in number. One was stout and middleaged; Topham’s eyes passed over her unheeding. The other was Elsa Ferreira.

Her eyes met Topham’s and a great wave of crimson flooded over her cheeks. Her hand slipped, and the motor swerved sharply. The other woman started and screamed out, and the fair driver, suddenly recalled to herself, barely avoided a collision. Then the car swept on.

Topham followed it with his eyes, forgetful of his whereabouts till it was swallowed up in the press. Then suddenly he became aware that the correspondent was shaking him violently by the arm.

“What is it?” he questioned vaguely.

“What is it!” Risdon’s voice was trembling with excitement. “What is it? Brace up, for God’s sake, Walter,” he begged. “People are staring. If you could see yourself! But good Lord, I don’t wonder! Nobody ever looked at me as that woman looked at you.”

With a great effort Topham regained his composure. “Nonsense!” he said. “Forget for a moment that you’re a yellow journalist, Risdon, and don’t try to make a sensation out of nothing. I know the lady slightly. She crossed with me from New York.”

CHAPTER VII

Topham never remembered how he got through the next hour. He went from place to place with Risdon, talked and laughed, met men—some of them famous men, too—but he did it all mechanically. His thoughts were with the girl whom he had seen in the automobile—the girl with whom he had crossed from New York—the girl who had told him her name was Elsa Ferreira—the girl who had warned him to be careful. Clearly she was one of the conspirators against himself, but he did not care. He had given the letter safely to Risdon and was free to act for himself for twenty-four hours—till it was time to leave Berlin.

When at last the hour for luncheon was at hand and he could leave Risdon on a plea that he must hurry back to the embassy, he did so with an alacrity which he feared the reporter would detect.

Once alone he lost no time in making his way to the ornate stone pile that Risdon had pointed out to him as the home of the Count and Countess of Ouro Preto.

Scarcely could he control himself while he waited for a reply to the card he sent up. It seemed to him incredible that it had been only that morning that he had parted from Elsa—he thought of her as Elsa—at the steamer. It seemed weeks even since he had gazed into her eyes across the traffic that thronged the street.

By and by a man came down the stairs. Topham recognized him as his Spanish-American acquaintance of the cigarette episode and grinned. “They’re all in it,” he observed. “But I don’t care. I don’t care a continental damn.”

He turned as a trim maid servant came running down the stairs, and bowed before him.

“The wohlgebornen Grafin will receive the Herr Lieutenant Topham,” she said. “Be pleased to walk up!”

Topham did so without delay.

As he entered her apartment the countess rose, and for an instant the two stared at each other. Curiosity was in that gaze, for those two had learned much about each other since they had parted. Defiance was in it, for both felt instinctively that their wills were to clash and both were ready for the encounter; fascination—or something strangely akin to fascination—was in it. The pause was that of two fencers who hesitate before they cross swords. It was for a second only, then the countess swept forward and held out her hand. “Mr. Topham?” she murmured. “I am glad to see you.”

Topham bowed as he took the hand in his. She wore a wonderful gown of clinging silk against which her dark beauty scintilated star-like. He could not speak. Her loveliness and what it meant—must mean—to him in the future took his breath away and held him for the moment dumb.