Professor Shishkin faltered. The question with him, however, was one of sentiment and not one of morality. If need be, he was willing to make a hundred affidavits, careless of their truth, counting it a virtue to deceive any one connected with the Czar and his government. The memory of the wrongs they had wrought on him still burned in his mind. Not in all the years that had elapsed had he forgotten them. But he had begun to remember Olga’s rights. No matter whose daughter she might be, no matter what rightful enmity he bore against her father, she herself was dear to him. Now that it came to the point, he could not bring himself to throw away her rights without consulting her; certainly not without serious consideration. He would give no affidavit at the moment. Yet if he refused, Demidroff would keep him in suspense about his own daughter. Well, he could bear it; he had been separated from her for twenty years; surely he could wait a little longer. But what excuse to give? What plea could he offer for refusing to bear witness to a state of affairs which he had already admitted? While still he hesitated, Demidroff, who had been watching him with rising suspicion of he knew not what, struck in. “I believe I am justified, Professor,” he remarked suavely, “in telling you that your daughter is suspected of affiliation with the terrorists, and is now being sought by the authorities. Information has recently reached me that she is in hiding in a near-by town and is liable to be arrested any moment. The charges against her are not very serious, however, and I shall be glad to quash them if I have reason to believe that you are friendly to me. This is only by the way, however. The pressing business in hand is that affidavit.” The old man flushed red, then white; he had opened his lips to speak, to defy this man who was mocking him, when Florence burst in. The show-girl had been watching the old man narrowly, and had guessed very accurately what was passing in his mind. She felt that it was high time for her to speak. “Father,” she exclaimed anxiously--“for I will still call you father! Do not forget your obligations to _me_.” The old man started. He had entirely forgotten Florence. Obviously she hoped that he would let the deception go on; obviously she had fostered it, even if she had not been responsible for it; plainly she was a little cheat, who ought to be exposed. Yet, after all, he himself was partly responsible for her deceit; he had palmed her off as Olga, and even if she had gone beyond his instructions, he felt it his duty to see that no harm should come to her. Indeed, he had promised her as much in New York. Slowly he raised his tremulous eyes. “I will not forget,” he promised.