At last the old man calmed himself. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Bristow,” he quavered. “I beg your pardon. I was very discourteous. I was not laughing at you, but at the way things come about. What creatures of fate we all are! We think we control events, but events really control us! Mr. Bristow, I have been worrying myself sick about Olga, and here you come, pat to the moment, to set everything straight. You say that Olga loves you?” “Yes.” The reporter’s voice was hushed and reverent. “Then everything is all right. I shall be delighted to have her marry you. But I must impose some conditions.” The Professor’s voice had grown stronger. Years seemed to have fallen from his shoulders. Bristow stared at him in wonder. “Anything you like,” he stammered. Shishkin smiled. “Oh, it won’t be hard on you,” he promised. “Though you may find my conditions difficult to understand. Let me explain. I am compelled to go on this trip concerning which I have written you. I am compelled to take Olga with me--or to appear to do so. I don’t want to take her, but I cannot refuse openly. But no one acquainted with her will be on the vessel. If I can find a substitute who resembles her somewhat, no one is likely to detect the change. The trouble has been to get Olga’s consent and to hide her away while I was gone. Your proposal makes this easy.” Amazedly the reporter listened. The old man was showing a new phase of character--a phase novel to Bristow, who had always thought of him only as an aged scientist engrossed in matters far removed from worldly scheming. But then, neither had he ever thought of him in connection with Russian terrorism, in which it now seemed that he was involved. Breathlessly, yet delighted at his easy success, he waited for the old man to continue. Professor Shishkin did not keep him waiting long. “Now,” he went on, “my consent to your marriage to Olga is conditional on this. You must find some one who reasonably resembles Olga, and who is willing for a consideration to go with me in her place. You must bring her here the night before we sail. I will have an old minister friend of mine waiting. He can marry you and Olga. Then Olga and the substitute will change clothes. When you take Olga away, the substitute can remain. She can wear a veil as long as any one who knows Olga is likely to see her. Once on the yacht, we will be safe from detection.” Bristow gasped. Scarcely could he believe his ears. The Professor had taken to intrigue as if he had been dabbling in it all his life. What next? “But,” he questioned, “where can I find a substitute? Do you know of any one like Olga----” “Dozens of them. Hundreds of girls in New York resemble her more or less. Olga is of a very common type.” The reporter flushed angrily. He did not think Olga of a common type. To him there was no one like her. Still, he could scarcely quarrel with her father for saying so. “It won’t be as easy as you think,” he returned. “Still, it might be done.”