



Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




The Pauper of Park Lane
By William Le Queux
Illustrations by Frank T. Merrill
Published by Cupples and Leon Company, New York.
This edition dated 1908.

The Pauper of Park Lane, by William Le Queux.

________________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________________
THE PAUPER OF PARK LANE, BY WILLIAM LE QUEUX.

CHAPTER ONE.

INTRODUCES A MAN AND A MYSTERY.

"There's some mystery about that girl--I'm certain of it."

"What makes you suspect that?"

"Well, first, she's evidently a lady--the daughter of a man who has come
down in the world most probably: and secondly--"

"Ah!  You mean the secret lover--the man who was here yesterday and
bought a twenty-guinea evening gown of her to send to his sister--eh?"
exclaimed Mr Warner, "buyer" of the costume department of the great
drapery house of Cunnington's, in Oxford Street, that huge store which,
as everybody knows, competes with Whiteley's and Harrod's for the
premier place of the middle-class trade in London.

"Yes," laughed Miss Thomas, the rather stout middle-aged woman who was
head saleswoman of the department, as she stood in the small,
glass-partitioned office of the buyer, a pleasant-faced man of
forty-five who was an expert in ladies' costumes, and twice yearly
bought his stock personally in Paris and in Berlin.  "Yes.  She's a
really nice girl, but I can't quite make her out, although she's been
here for over a year now."

"And the lover?" asked the buyer, with a glance across the long square
room where autumn costumes of every description were displayed upon
stands, or hanging by the hundred in long rows, while ranged round the
walls were many expensive evening-dresses exhibited in glass cases.  It
was afternoon, and the place was full of customers, the assistants in
their neat black holding ready-made skirts to their sides to try the
effect, or conducting the prospective purchaser to the fitting-rooms.
And yet they were not what Mr Warner termed "busy."

"The man, too, is a mystery, like Miss Rolfe.  Nobody knows his name.
He comes in sometimes, goes up to her, and asks to be served with a
skirt or something, and has it sent to Mr Evans at some chambers in
Dover Street.  The name is, of course, not the right one," said the head
assistant.  "But Miss Rolfe knows it, of course?"

"Probably she does."

"And she meets him after business hours?"

"I think so.  But she keeps herself very much to herself, and is always
at home early."

Mr Warner glanced across at the tall, fair-haired, handsome girl, whose
figure showed to such advantage in her black satin gown.  At that moment
she was displaying a cheap tweed skirt to two middle-aged women.  Her
face, as he caught its profile, was very soft and refined, the contour
of her cheeks perfect, and the stray wisp of hair across the brow gave a
softness to her countenance that was charming.  Many a stage girl whose
photograph was displayed in the shop-windows was not half so beautiful
as the demure, hard-working shop-assistant, Marion Rolfe.

The air of mystery surrounding her, Mr Warner found interesting, and
the love-romance now in progress he intended to watch.  Towards his
assistants, he was always lenient.  Unlike some "buyers," he was never
hard, and never bullied them.  He believed that by treating them with
kindliness and with the courtesy every man should show towards a woman
he obtained the best of their business abilities, as no doubt he did.
"Warner of the Costumes" was known through the whole "house" as one of
the most considerate of men, and one of the most trusted of old Mr
Cunnington's advisers.  Those in his department were envied by all the
other seven hundred odd assistants in the employment of the great firm.

While Mr Warner and Miss Thomas were speaking, a smart-looking,
fair-haired, fair-moustached young man of about twenty-five, in frock
coat and silk hat, entered, and walking up to the little office, greeted
the buyer saying--

"Mr Warner, I'm sorry to worry you, but may I speak to my sister for a
moment on some important family business?  I won't keep her but a few
moments, for I see she's busy."

"Why, certainly, Mr Rolfe," was the good-humoured reply, as Miss Thomas
went away to serve a customer.  "It's against our rules, as you know,
but for my own part I can never see why a young lady need be debarred
from speaking to her own brother."

"You're always very good, Mr Warner," responded the young man, "and I'd
like to thank you for many little kindnesses you've shown to Marion."

"Oh, nothing, nothing, my dear Mr Rolfe," Warner said.  "Your sister is
an excellent business woman--one of the best I have, I may tell you.
But look!  She's disengaged now.  Go over to her."  And he watched the
young man crossing the department.

Marion, surprised when her brother stood before her, immediately asked
whether he had received Mr Warner's permission.

"Of course I have," was his quick reply in rather an excited manner, she
thought.  "I just ran up to tell you that I have to go abroad suddenly
to-night, and to say good-bye.  Old Sam Statham is sending me out to
Servia.  He only told me at one o'clock that I must go, and I've been
buying some things necessary."

"To Servia!" exclaimed the girl, amazed that her brother, to whom she
was devoted, was to go so far from her.

"Yes.  We have some mining interests and some other things out there,
and old Sam suddenly decided to send me out to make certain inquiries.
I shall be away a month or two, I daresay, as I have to go to see a new
mine in the course of preparation down on the banks of the Danube
somewhere."

"But do take care of yourself, Charlie," urged the girl, looking up into
her brother's face.  "I've heard that it's an unsafe country."

"Unsafe!  Why that's quite a fallacy.  Servia is as safe as the Strand
nowadays.  Bland, our chief clerk, was out there a year, and he's been
telling me how delightful the people are.  Servia is entirely misjudged
by us."

"Then you'll go to-night?"

"Yes, by the mail from Charing Cross," he replied.  "But don't come and
see me off.  I hate people to do that.  And when you see dear old Max,
tell him that I'm sorry I had no time to go round before leaving.  I've
just telephoned, and his man says he won't be back till seven.  That
will be too late for me."

"Very well," replied his sister.  "But--"

"But what?"

"Well, Charlie, I'm sorry you're going.  I feel--well, I feel that you
are going to a place where an accident might happen to you.  I know
nothing about Servia, and besides--"

"Well?"

"The mystery about old Sam Statham always haunts me.  I don't somehow
like that man."

"You only met him once, and he was very courteous to you.  Besides, he
is my master.  Were it not for him I should most probably be going about
London penniless."

"I know, I know," she said.  "Have you been to his house in Park Lane
lately?"

"I was there this morning, but only for five minutes.  He gave me some
instructions about a call I had to make in the city."

"I wish you could leave him and get some other work as secretary.  I
don't like him.  He isn't what he pretends to be, I'm sure he isn't."

"He pretends to be nothing," laughed her brother.  "Old Sam is a
millionaire, and millionaires need no pretence.  He could buy up this
show twice over, and then leave a million for the death duties.  You've
taken a prejudice against him."

"A woman's prejudice--which often is not very far wrong."

"I know that you women see much further than we men do, but in this,
Marion, you are quite wrong.  Old Sam is eccentric and mean, but at
heart he's not at all a bad old fellow."

"Well, I tell you frankly, I don't half like your going to Servia under
his auspices."

Charlie Rolfe laughed aloud.

"My dear Marion, of what are you apprehensive?" he asked.  "I go in a
very responsible position, as his confidential secretary, to inquire
into certain matters in his interests.  If I carry out my mission
successfully, I shall get a rise of salary."

"Granted.  But you know what you're told me about the queer stories
afloat regarding Samuel Statham and his house in Park Lane."

"I've never believed them, although they are, of course, curious.  Yet
you must remember that every man of great wealth has mysterious stories
put about by his enemies.  Every man and every woman has enemies.  Who
has not?"

"But you've admitted yourself that you've never been in more than one
room in the mansion," she said, looking him straight in the face.

"That's true.  But it doesn't prove anything, does it?" he asked.  And
Marion saw that he was nervous and agitated, quite unlike his usual
self.  Perhaps, however, it was on account of her apprehensions, she
thought.

She had only seen Samuel Statham, the well-known millionaire, on one
occasion.  She had called at the offices in Old Broad Street one
afternoon to see her brother, who was his confidential secretary, when
the old fellow had entered, a short, round-shouldered, grey-bearded old
man, rather shabbily-dressed, who, looking at her, bluntly asked who she
was and what she wanted there.

One of his eccentricities was that he hated women, and Marion knew that.

In a faltering tone she replied that she was sister of his secretary,
whereupon his manner instantly changed.  He became the acme of
politeness, asked her into his private room, offered her a glass of
port--which, of course, she refused--and chatted to her most affably
till her brother's return.

Why she had taken such a violent dislike to the old man she herself
could not tell.  Possibly it was his sudden change of manner, and that
his pleasant suavity was feigned.  And this, combined with the
extraordinary rumours regarding his past, and the mystery of his great
mansion in Park Lane, had caused her to view him with bitter prejudice.

Several customers were waiting to be served, and Marion saw Mr Warner's
eye upon her.

"Well, Charlie," she said, "perhaps I'll get down to Charing Cross to
see you off.  You go to Paris first, I suppose?"

"Yes.  I take the Orient Express from there, by way of Vienna and
Budapest to Belgrade.  But," he added, "don't come and see me off,
there's a good girl."

"Why?  I've been before, when you've gone to the Continent."

"Yes, I know," he answered impatiently; "but--well, it makes me feel as
if I shan't come back.  Don't come, will you?"

Marion smiled.  His anxiety that she should not come struck her as
distinctly curious.

He was not himself.  Of that she was convinced.  To her, ever since her
father's death, he had been a good friend, and for a year prior to her
engagement at Cunnington's he had divided his salary with her.  No girl
ever had a better brother than he had been, yet of late she had noticed
a complete change in his manner.  He was no longer frank with her, as he
used to be, and he seemed often to hide from her facts which, with her
woman's keen intelligence, she afterwards discovered.

"Miss Rolfe!" exclaimed Mr Warner, emerging from his office.
"Disengaged?"  And he pointed to a pair of somewhat obese ladies who
were examining a costume displayed on a stand.

"Well, good-bye, Charlie," she said, shaking his hand.  "I must go.
We're very busy this afternoon.  Perhaps I shall see you at Charing
Cross.  If not--then take care of yourself, dear.  Good-bye."

And she turned and left him to attend to the two ladies, while he, with
a nod across to Mr Warner, strode out of the shop.

"I hope to goodness Marion doesn't come," he muttered to himself.
"Women are so infernally inquisitive.  And if she does go to Charing
Cross she's sure to suspect something!"

CHAPTER TWO.

CONCERNS A SILENT SECRET.

That same afternoon, while Charlie Rolfe was bidding farewell to his
sister Marion, Max Barclay was sitting in the cosy study of one of the
smaller houses in Cromwell Road, smoking cigarettes with a thin-faced,
grey-haired, grey-bearded man whose cast of features at once betrayed
him to be a foreigner.

The well-furnished room was the typical den of a studious man, as its
owner really was, for about it was an air of solid comfort, while upon
the floor near where the elder man was lying back in his leather
easy-chair were scattered some newspapers with headings in unfamiliar
type--the Greek alphabet.

The air was thick with cigarette smoke, giving forth an aroma unusual to
English nostrils--that pleasant aroma peculiar to Servian tobacco.

The younger man, dressed in well-fitting, dark grey flannels, his long
legs sprawled out as he lay back in his chair taking his ease and
gossiping with his friend, was, without doubt, a handsome fellow.  Tall
beyond the average run of men, with lithe, clean-cut limbs, smart and
well-groomed, with closely-cropped dark hair, a pair of merry dark eyes,
and a small dark moustache which had an upward trend, his air was
distinctly military.  Indeed, until a few months before he had held a
commission, in a cavalry regiment, but had resigned on account of the
death of his father and his consequent succession to the wide and
unencumbered Barclay estates in Lincolnshire and up in the Highlands.

Though now possessor of a fine old English home and a
seventeenth-century castle in Scotland, Max Barclay preferred to divide
his time between his chambers in Dover Street and wandering about the
Continent.  There was time enough to "settle down," he always declared.
Besides, both the houses were too big and too gloomy to suit his rather
simple bachelor tastes.  His Aunt Emily, an old lady of seventy, still
continued to live at Water Newton Hall, not far from that quaint, old
world and many-spired town, Stamford; but Kilmaronock Castle was
unoccupied save for six weeks or so when he went up with friends for the
shooting season.

Agents were frequently making tempting offers to him to let the place to
certain wealthy Americans, but he refused all inducements.  The fine old
place between Crieff and Perth had never been let during his father's
lifetime, and he did not intend that any stranger, except his own
friends, should enjoy the splendid shooting now.

"My dear Petrovitch," he was saying between whiffs of his cigarette, "It
is indeed reassuring what you tell me regarding the settled state of the
country.  You have surely had sufficient internal troubles of late."

"Ah, yes!" sighed the elder man, a deep, thoughtful expression upon his
pleasant, if somewhat sallow, countenance.  "Servia has passed through
her great crisis--the crisis through which every young nation must pass
sooner or later; and now, heaven be thanked, a brighter day has dawned
for us.  Under our new _regime_ prosperity is assured.  But"--and
pausing, he looked Max straight in the face, and in a changed voice, a
voice of increased earnestness and confidence, he added with only a
slight accent, for he spoke English very well--"I did not ask you here
to discuss politics.  We Servians are, I fear, sad gossips upon our own
affairs.  I wanted to speak to you upon a subject of greatest importance
to myself personally, and of someone very dear to me.  Now we have been
friends, my dear Max, you and I, through some years, and I feel--nay, I
know, that you will regard what I say in entire confidence."

"Most certainly," was the young Englishman's reply, though somewhat
surprised at his friend's sudden change of manner.

It was true that he had known Dr Michael Petrovitch for quite a number
of years.

Long ago, when he had first visited Belgrade, the Servian capital, the
man before him, well-known throughout the Balkans as a patriot, was
occupying the position of Minister of Finance under King Milan.  Both
his Excellency and his wife had been extremely kind to him, had
introduced him to the smart social set, had obtained for him the
_entree_ to the Palace festivities, and had presented him to Queen
Nathalie.  Thus a firm friendship had been established between the two
men.

But affairs in Servia had considerably changed since then.  Madame
Petrovitch, a charming English lady, had died, and his Excellency, after
becoming Minister of Commerce and subsequently Foreign Minister in
several succeeding Cabinets, had gone abroad to represent his country at
foreign Courts, first St Petersburg, then Berlin, and then
Constantinople, finally returning and coming to live in England.

Even now he was not more than fifty, and it had long ago been whispered
that his Majesty was constantly urging him to return and accept the
portfolio of Finance or of Commerce.  But he steadily declined.  As a
statesman, his abilities had long ago been recognised by Europe, and
none knew his value or appreciated him more than his own sovereign; yet
for private reasons he preferred to live quietly in the Cromwell Road to
returning to all the worries of State and those eternal bickerings in
the Servian Skuptchina.

He was a man of even temper, of charming manner, and of scrupulous
honesty.  Had he been dishonest in his dealings he might have amassed a
great fortune while occupying those posts in the various ministries.
But he had preferred to remain as he was, upright, even though
comparatively poor.

"Well?" asked Max, after a long silence.  "I am waiting."

"It is a matter to which I refer not without some hesitation," declared
his friend.  "I want to speak to you about Maud."

"About Maud.  Well?"

"I am worried about the child--a good deal."

"For what reason?" asked Max, considerably surprised.

Maud was Petrovitch's only daughter, a very beautiful girl, now nineteen
years of age, who had been brought up in England and to whom he was
entirely devoted.

"Well, she has fallen in love."

"All girls do sooner or later," replied Max, philosophically.

"But she's too young yet--far too young.  Twenty-five is quite early
enough for a girl to marry."

"And who's the man?"

"Your friend--Charlie Rolfe."

"Charlie!" he exclaimed, in great surprise.  "And he's in love with
Maud.  Are you quite sure of this?"

"Quite.  She meets him in secret, and though Rolfe is your friend, Max,
I tell you I don't like it," he declared.

"I am not surprised.  Secret affections never meet with a parent's
approbation.  If Charlie is in love with her, and the affection is
mutual, why doesn't he come straight and tell you?"

"Exactly my argument," declared Petrovitch, lighting a fresh cigarette
with the end of one half-consumed.  "But tell me, Rolfe is an intimate
friend of yours, is he not?"

"Very," was Max's reply, though he did not inform his friend of his love
for Marion.

"What is his exact position?"

"As far as I know, he is private secretary to old Samuel Statham, the
great financier.  His position is quite a good one--as far as
confidential secretaryships go."

"Statham!  I've heard of him.  There's some extraordinary story about
his house in Park Lane, isn't there?  Nobody has ever been inside, or
something."

"There is, I believe, some cock and bull story," responded Max.  "The
old fellow is a bit eccentric, and doesn't care for people prying all
over his house.  He lives alone, and has no friends.  Do you know, one
can be very lonely in London.  It is a perfect Sahara to those who are
friendless."

"Yes," said Petrovitch, huskily.  "I know it by experience myself.  When
I was a youth I lived here.  I was a foreign clerk in an insurance
office in the city, and I lived perfectly alone--among all these
millions.  I remember it all as though it were only yesterday.  I was
indeed glad to get back to Servia."

"But why are you worried about Maud, old fellow?"  Max asked.  "Don't
you like Rolfe--or what?"

"I like him very much, indeed I took a great fancy to the young fellow
when you introduced him to me last year at Aix-les-Bains.  From the very
first I noticed that he was attracted towards the child, and I did not
object because I thought a little flirtation would amuse her.  These
secret meetings, however, I don't like.  It is not right.  She's met him
in St James's Park, and at other places of late, and they have gone for
long walks together without my knowledge or sanction."

Max thought for a moment.

"Does she know that you are aware of the meetings?"

"No."

"Well, I must admit that I had no idea matters had gone so far as they
evidently have," he said.  "I, of course, knew that he has greatly
admired Maud from the very first.  He was, in fact, always speaking of
her in admiration, yet I believed that he did not consider his position
to be sufficiently established in warranting him to declare his love to
her.  Shall I throw out a gentle hint to him that the secret meetings
would be best discontinued?"

"If he were to discontinue his visits here altogether it would, I think,
be best," said Petrovitch in a hard voice, quite unusual to him.

Max was surprised at this.  Had any unpleasantness occurred between the
two men, which his friend was concealing, knowing that Rolfe was his
most intimate chum?

"Does he come often?"

"He calls about once a week--upon me, ostensibly, but really in excuse
to see the child."

"And now--let us speak frankly, old fellow," Max said, bending slightly
towards the man seated opposite him.  "Do you object to Rolfe paying his
attentions to your daughter?"

"Yes--I do."

"Then I very much regret that I ever introduced him.  We were together
at Aix-les-Bains for three weeks last summer, and, as you know, we met.
You were my old friend, and I could not help introducing him.  I regret
it now, and can only hope you will forgive me such an indiscretion."

"It was not indiscreet at all--only unfortunate," he answered, almost
snappishly.

"But tell me straight out--what do you wish me to do?"  Max urged.
"Recollect that if I can serve you in any way you have only to command
me."

"Even at the expense of your friend's happiness?" asked Petrovitch, his
sharp eyes fixed upon the young man.

"If he really loves her, the circumstances of the cue are altered," was
the diplomatic answer.

"And if he does not?  If it is, as I suspect, a mere flirtation--what
then?"

"Then I think you should leave the matter to me, to act with my
discretion," young Barclay replied.  He recollected that Charlie was
Marion's brother, and he saw himself already in a somewhat difficult
position.  "My own idea is," he went on, "that it is something more than
a mere flirtation, and that the reason of the secret meetings is because
he fears to ask your consent to be allowed to pay court to your
daughter."

"What makes you think so?"

"From some words that his sister Marion let drop the other day."

"Ah!  Marion is a sweet and charming girl," the elder man declared.
"What a pity she should be compelled to drudge in a shop!"

"Yes," replied Max, quickly.  "It is a thousand pities.  She's far too
refined and good for that life."

"A matter of unfortunate necessity, I suppose."

Necessity!  Max Barclay bit his lips when he recollected how very easily
she might leave that shop-life if she would only accept money from him.
But how could she?  How could he offer it to her without insult?

No.  Until she consented to be his wife she must still remain there, at
the beck and call of every irritating tradesman's wife who cared to
enter the department to purchase a ready-made costume or a skirt "with
material for bodice."

"I'm sorry for Marion," Dr Petrovitch went on.  "She frequently comes
here of an evening, and often on Sundays to keep Maud company.  They get
on most excellently together."

"Yes; she is devoted to Maud.  She has told me so."

"I believe she is," Petrovitch said.  "And yet it is unfortunate, for
friendliness with Marion must also mean continued friendliness with her
brother."

"Ah!  I see now that you do not like him," Max said, openly, for he
could not now fail to see from his friend's expression that something
had occurred.  What it was he was utterly unable to make out.

"No, I don't," was the ex-Minister's plain, determined answer.  "And to
tell you the truth, I have other views regarding Maud's future.  So just
tell the young man whatever you think proper.  Only request him neither
to call here, nor to attempt to see the child again!"

CHAPTER THREE.

TELLS OF A WOMAN'S LOVE.

In the dull hazy London sunset Fopstone Road, which leads from Earl's
Court Road into Nevern Square, was quite deserted.

There is a silence and monotony in the eminently respectable
thoroughfares in that particular district that, to their residents, is
often very depressing.  Traffic there is none save a stray hansom or a
tradesman's cart at long intervals, while street organs and even the
muffin men avoid them because, unlike the poorer districts, they find no
stray coppers and no customers.

On the same evening as the events recorded in the previous chapters,
about six o'clock, just as the red dusky after-glow was deepening into
twilight, Charlie Rolfe emerged from Earl's Court Station, walked along
to the corner of Fopstone Road, and, halting, looked eagerly down it.

But there was not a soul.  Indeed there was no sound beyond that of a
distant cab whistle somewhere in Nevern Square.

For about five minutes he waited, glancing impatiently at his watch, and
then, turning upon his heel, strolled along in the direction of the
Square.

A few moments later, however, there hurried up behind him a sweet-faced,
smartly-dressed girl who, as he turned to meet her, laughed merrily,
saying:

"I do hope, Charlie, I haven't kept you waiting, but I've had such
trouble to get out.  Dad asked me to write some private letters in
English for him; I really believe he suspects something.  We meet too
often."

"No, darling," answered Rolfe, raising his hat and taking her small
gloved hand.  "We don't meet frequently enough for me.  And I think that
your father is entirely unsuspicious.  I was with him last night, and he
did not strike me as possessing any knowledge of these secret meetings
of ours."

"Yes, but you know how dangerous it is," replied the pretty girl,
glancing round.  "Somebody might pass, recognise me, and tell dad."

"And what then, dearest?" he laughed.  "Why your fears are utterly
groundless."

"I know, but--"

"But what?"

"Well, dad would be annoyed--that's all--annoyed with both of us."

"He must already have seen, darling, that I love you.  He isn't blind,"
said Charlie Rolfe, moving slowly along at her side.

Hers was, indeed, a face that would attract attention anywhere, oval,
delicately moulded, slightly flushed by the momentary excitement of
meeting her lover.  Her hair was well-dressed, her narrow-waisted figure
still girlish; her dress, a pale biscuit-coloured cloth, which, in its
refined simplicity, suited well the graceful contour of the slender
form, and contrasted admirably with the soft white skin; the dark hair,
a stray coquettish little wisp of which fell across her brow beneath her
neat black hat, and the dark brown eyes, so large, luminous, and
expressive.

Her gaze met his.  Every sensitive feature, every quiet graceful
movement told plainly of her culture and refinement, while on her face
there rested an indescribable charm, a look of shy, sweet humility, of
fond and all-consuming love for the man beside her.

As she lifted her eyes at the words of affection he was whispering into
her ear as they went along the quiet, deserted street, she perceived how
tall and athletic he was, and noticed, woman-like, the masculine
perfection of his dress, alike removed from slovenliness and foppery.

"No," she said at last, her eyes gazing in abstraction in front of her.
"I don't suppose dad is in any way blind.  He generally is too
wide-awake.  I have to make all sorts of excuses to get out--
dressmakers, painting-lessons, buying evening gloves, a broken watch--
and all sorts of thing like that.  The fact is," she declared, laughing
sweetly and glancing again at him, "I have almost exhausted all the
subterfuges."

"Ah, dearest, a woman can always find some excuse," he remarked, joining
in her laughter.

"Yes, but that's all very well; you haven't a father," she protested,
"so you don't know."

She had only left school at Brighton two years before, therefore her
clandestine meetings with Charlie Rolfe were adventures which she dearly
loved.  And, moreover, they both of them were devoted to each other.
Charlie absolutely adored her.  Hitherto women had never attracted him,
but from the day of their introduction on the gravelled walk in front of
the Villa des Fleurs at Aix, his whole life had changed.  He was hers--
hers utterly and entirely.

For three months he had existed in constant uncertainty, until one warm
evening at Scarborough--where she and her father were staying at the
Grand--while they were alone together in the sloping garden of the Spa
he summoned courage to tell her the secret of his heart, and to his
overwhelming joy found that his passion was reciprocated.  Thus had they
become lovers.

As Max rightly guessed, he had feared for the present to tell Dr
Petrovitch the truth lest he should object and a parting be the result.
His position was not what he wished it to be.  As secretary to the
eccentric old financier, his salary was an adequate one, but not
sufficient to provide Maud with a home such as her own.  He therefore
intended in a little while to tell old Statham the truth, and to ask for
more.  And until he had done so, he hesitated to demand of the Doctor
his daughter's hand.

Together they strolled slowly on, chatting as lovers will.  At the
bottom of Fopstone Road they continued round the crescent of Philbeach
Gardens, along Warwick Road, and crossing Old Brompton Road, entered
that maze of quiet, eminently respectable streets in the neighbourhood
of Redcliffe Square, strolling slowly on in the falling gloom.

"Do you know, darling," he exclaimed at last, "I wanted to see you very
particularly this evening, because I am leaving London to-night for
Servia."

"For Servia!" she cried, halting and fixing her great eyes upon his in
quick surprise.

"Yes."

Her countenance fell.

"Then you--you are leaving me?"

"It is imperative, my darling," he said, in a low, tender voice, taking
her hand in his.  He wished to kiss her sweet lips, but there in the
open street such action was impossible.  Courtship in our grimy,
matter-of-fact London has many drawbacks, even though every house
contains its life-romance and every street holds its man or woman with a
broken heart.

"But you never told me," she complained.  "You've left it until the last
minute.  Do you start from Charing Cross to-night?"

"Yes.  I would leave to-morrow at nine, and catch the Orient express
from Calais for Belgrade, but I have business to do in Paris to-morrow."

"Ah!  Belgrade!" sighed the girl.  "I wonder if I shall ever see it
again?  Long ago I used to be so fond of it, and we had so very many
good friends.  Dear old dad is so popular.  Why, when we drove out the
people in their brown homespun clothes used to run after the carriage
and cheer `Petrovitch the Patriot,' as they call dad."

"Of course you will return soon," Charlie said.  "No doubt your father
will be induced to enter the new Pashitch Cabinet."

The girl shook her head dubiously.

"I know the King has several times asked him to return to Servia, but
for some mysterious reason he has always declined."

"But he is the most popular man in the country, and he cannot remain
away much longer.  It is his duty to return and assist in the
Government."

"Yes.  But my mother died in Belgrade, you know, and I think that may be
the reason he does not care to return," replied the girl.  "Why are you
going there?" she asked.

"On a mission for Statham--regarding a mining concession," he answered.
"You know we have a lot of interests out there.  Perhaps I shall be away
only a week or two--perhaps six months."

"Six months!" she cried in a blank voice.  "It is such a long, long time
to look forward to."

"I have no desire to leave you, my own darling," he declared, looking
straight into her beautiful face.  "But the mission is confidential, and
for that reason I have received orders to go."

"Your train leaves at nine," she said, "and it is already nearly seven--
only two hours!  And those two remaining hours I cannot spend with you,
for I must be in to dinner at seven.  I must leave you in a moment," she
added, and the faint flush in her face died away.

Her voice ceased.  He looked down musing, without replying.  He was
impressed by her utter loneliness--impressed, too, without knowing it by
the time and place.  The twilight of the short evening was gathering
fast.  A cold damp feeling was mingled with the silence of the dull,
drab London street.  It struck him that it felt like a grave.

A slight nervous trembling came over his well-beloved, and a weary
little sigh escaped her lips.

That sigh of hers recalled him to a sense of her distress at his
departure, and the face that met her troubled eyes was, in an instant,
as full as ever of resolute hopefulness.

"What matters, my own, if I am away?" he asked with a smile.  "We love
each other, and that is all-sufficient."

All the pity of his strong, tender nature went forth to the lovely girl
whom he loved with such strong passionate devotion.

"What matter, indeed!" she cried, hoarsely, tears springing to her eyes.
"Is it no matter that I see you, Charlie?  Ah! you do not know how I
count the hours when we shall meet again--how--how--" And unable to
further restrain her emotion, she burst into tears.

He was silent.  What, indeed, could he say?

Reflections, considerations, possibilities crowded in upon his mind,
already disturbed and perplexed.  The sweetness of the hours passed in
her society had increased insensibly ever since that well-remembered
afternoon in Aix; the tones of her voice, the notes of those melodious
old Servian songs she so often sang, her slightest action held a charm
for him such as his earnest nature had never experienced before.

And they must part.

Within himself he doubted whether they would ever meet again.  He had
secret fears--fears of something that was in progress--something that
might entirely change his life--something he held secret from her.

But he put the thought away.  It was a horrible reflection--a qualm of
conscience.  What would she think of him if she actually knew the truth?

He bit his lip, and in resolution again took her white-gloved hand.

"No, darling," he said, softly, in an earnest effort to cheer her.  "I
will return very soon.  Be brave, and remember that my every thought is
of you always--of you, my love."

"I know," she sobbed.  "I know, Charlie, but--but I cannot really help
it.  Forgive me."

"Forgive you!  Of course I do, sweetheart; only do not cry, or they will
certainly suspect something when you sit down to dinner."

His argument decided her, and she slowly dried her tears, saying:

"I only wish I could go to Charing Cross to see you off.  But an hour
ago I telephoned to your sister Marion to come and dine with us, and go
with me to a concert at Queen's hall."

"And she accepted?" he asked, quickly, almost breathlessly.

Rolfe gave a sigh of relief.  At any rate neither his sister nor his
well-beloved would be at Charing Cross at nine that evening.

"I must try and bring her to the station, if possible.  Does she know
you are going?" asked the girl.

"Oh, yes.  But I particularly asked her not to see me off."

"In order that I might come alone.  Oh! how very good of you, Charlie!"

"No.  Forgive me for saying so, but like a good many men who travel a
lot I never like being seen off--not even by you, yourself, my darling!"

"Very well," she sighed, looking up into his serious eyes.  "I must, I
suppose, act as you wish.  May God protect you, my dearest, and bring
you back again in safety to me."  Then as he whispered into her ear
words of courage and ardent affection, with linked arms they re-traced
their steps back to Earl's Court Road, where, with lingering reluctance,
he took affectionate leave of her.

Having watched her turn the corner, he went slowly back towards Earl's
Court Station, and as he did so, beneath his breath he murmured "Ah! if
she knew--if she knew!  But she must never know--she shall never know--
never as long as I have breath.  I love her--love her better than my
life--and she is mine.  Yet--yet how can I, after--after--"

And he sighed deeply without concluding the sentence, while his face
went ashen pale at the thought which again crossed his mind--a thought,
secret and terrible.

CHAPTER FOUR.

WHICH IS DISTINCTLY MYSTERIOUS.

Max Barclay, on leaving Dr Petrovitch, had taken a cab straight to
Charlie's chambers in Jermyn Street, arriving there shortly before six.
Green, his man, had told him, however, that his master had returned soon
after luncheon, ordered two big bags to be packed, and had left with
them upon a hansom, merely saying that he should be absent a week, or
perhaps two, and that no letters need be forwarded.

Max was not surprised at this sudden departure, for old Statham had a
habit of sending his confidential secretary hither and thither at almost
a moment's notice.  The old fellow's financial interests were enormous,
and widely dispersed.  Some of them were in Servia and Bulgaria, where
he held concessions of great value.

He had had a finger in most of the financial undertakings in the Near
East during the past fifteen years or so.  Out of the Oriental Railway
extension from Salonica to the Servian frontier alone he had, it was
said, made a huge fortune, for he was the original concessionaire.  For
some years he had lived in the Balkans, looking after his interests in
person, but nowadays he entrusted it all to his agents with occasional
visits by this confidential secretary.

Therefore Max suspected that Charlie had left for the East, more
especially that at the hour he had left Jermyn Street he could have
caught the afternoon Continental service from Charing Cross _via_
Boulogne.

So he went on to his own rooms, changed, dined at the Automobile Club,
his mind being full of what the Doctor had told him concerning Charlie
and Maud.  He had, of course, suspected it all along.  Marion knew the
truth, but, loyal to her brother, she had said no word.  Yet when he had
seen Rolfe with the ex-statesman's pretty daughter, he had long ago
guessed that the pair were more than mere friends.

That the Doctor disapproved of the affair was somewhat disconcerting,
more especially as he had openly declared that he had other ideas of
Maud's future.  What were they?  Was her father hoping that she would
marry some young Servian--a man of his own race?

He sat in the club over a cigar till nearly nine o'clock, wondering how
he could assist the man who was not only his dearest friend but brother
of the girl to whom he was so entirely devoted and whom he intended to
make his wife.

He sighed with regret when he thought of her undergoing that shop
drudgery to which she had never been accustomed.  The early rising, the
eternal drive of business, the calm, smiling exterior towards those
pettish, snapping women customers, and those hasty scrambles for meals.
He had seen her engaged in her business, and he had met her after shop
hours, pale, worn, and fagged out.

And yet he--the man who was to be her husband--lived in that ease and
idleness which an income of twelve thousand a year secured.

Had Petrovitch not told him that Marion was dining at Cromwell Road and
going to a concert with Maud afterwards, he would have wired to her to
meet him.  But he knew how devoted the two girls were to each other,
notwithstanding the difference of their stations, and how Maud welcomed
Marion's company at concerts or theatres to which her father so seldom
cared to go.

Suddenly it occurred to him that if he returned to the Doctor's he would
meet Marion there later on, when she came back from Queen's Hall, and be
able to drive her home to that dull street at the back of Oxford Street
where the assistants of Cunnington's, Limited, "lived in."

This reflection aroused him, and, glancing at the smoking-room clock, he
saw it wanted a quarter to ten.

Two other men, friends of his, were sitting near, discussing motoring
matters, and their eternal chatter upon cylinders, tyres, radiators, and
electric horns bored him.  Therefore he rose, put on his coat, and,
hailing a cab, told the man to drive to Victoria, where he took the
underground railway to Gloucester Road Station.

From there to the house of the ex-Minister was only a very short walk.
The night was mild, bright, and starlight, for the haze of sundown which
had threatened rain had been succeeded by a brilliant evening.  Cromwell
Road is always deserted at that hour before the cabs and carriages begin
to return from restaurants and theatres, and as he strolled along,
knowing that he was always welcome at the Doctor's house to chat and
smoke, his was the only footfall to be heard in the long open
thoroughfare.

Ascending the steps beneath the wide portico, he pressed the visitors'
bell, but though he waited several minutes, there was no response.
Again and again he rang, but the bell was apparently out of order, so he
gave a sounding rat-tat with the knocker.

Then he listened intently; but to his surprise no one stirred.

Over the door was a bright light, as usual, revealing the number in
great white numerals, and through the chinks of the Venetian blinds of
the dining-room he could see that the electric lamps were on.

Again and again he rang and knocked.  It was surely curious, he thought,
that all the servants should be out, even though the Doctor might be
absent.  The failure to arouse anybody caused him both surprise and
apprehension.  Though the electric bell might be out of order, yet his
loud knock must be heard even up to the garrets.  London servants are
often neglectful in the absence of their masters, and more especially if
there is no mistress, yet it seemed hardly creditable that they would go
out and leave the place unattended.

Seven or eight times he repeated his summons, standing upon the
door-steps with his ears strained to catch the slightest sound.

Once he thought he heard distinctly the noise of stealthy footsteps in
the hall, and he held his breath.  They were repeated.  He was quite
certain that his ears had not deceived him, for in the street all was
silent as the grave.  He heard someone moving within as though creeping
slowly from the door.

What could it mean?  Were thieves within?

He examined the door to see if the lock had been tampered with, but, so
far as he could discern, it was untouched.  He was undecided how to act,
though now positively certain that something unusual was in progress.

He glanced up and down the long road, with its rows of gas lamps, but no
one was visible.  The only sound was the far-distant rat-tat of the
postman on his last round.

For the Doctor to be out of an evening was very unusual; and that
stealthy footstep had alarmed him.  If there were actually thieves, then
they had probably entered by the area door.  Max was by no means a
coward.  There was a mystery there--a mystery he intended to at once
investigate.

Doctor Petrovitch was one of his dearest friends and he meant to act as
a friend should act.

What puzzled him most of all was the absence of the servants.  All of
them were apparently highly trustworthy, yet the foreigner in London, he
remembered, often engaged servants without sufficient inquiry into their
past.

For a few moment he stood motionless, his ears strained, at the door.

The movement was repeated.  Someone seemed to be leaving the
dining-room, for he distinctly heard the light footfall.

Therefore, with scarce a sound, he crept down the steps to the pavement
and descended the winding flight to the area door.  With great caution
he turned the handle, but alas! the knob went right round in his hand,
the door remaining still fastened.

A light showed in the kitchen, but whether anyone was there he of course
could not tell.  Again he tried the door, but without avail.  It was
securely fastened, while, as far as he could ascertain, there were no
marks of any forcible entry.

Should he rap at the door?  Or would that further alarm the intruders?
He had knocked many times at the front door, it was true, but they would
no doubt wait until they believed he had gone.  Or else they might
escape by the rear of the premises.

What should he do?

He hesitated again, with bated breath.

Next instant, however, he heard upon the stone steps above him, leading
from the pavement to the front door, the light tread of feet quickly
descending.  Someone, having watched him descend there, was leaving the
house!  And yet so noiselessly that at first Max believed himself
mistaken.

In a second he had dashed up the area steps and stood upon the pavement.
But already he realised the truth.  The front door stood ajar, and the
intruder was flying as fast as his feet could carry him in the direction
of the Brompton Road.

Swiftly, without looking back, the man sped lightly along the pavement
to the next corner, which he turned and was a moment later lost to view.

Max Barclay did not follow.  He stood there like a man in a dream.

"What--in Heaven's name--is the meaning of this?" as, held powerless, he
stood staring in the direction the fugitive had taken.

His first impulse had been to follow, but next moment, as the escaping
intruder had passed beneath a street lamp he recognised the figure
unmistakably, both by the clothes and hat, as none other than his friend
Charles Rolfe!

He fell back, staggered by the discovery.

For quite a brief space he stood unable to move.  Then, seeing the door
ajar, he ascended the steps and entered the house.  The lights were
switched on everywhere, but, on going in, something--what it was he
could never describe--struck him as peculiar.  Hardly had he crossed the
threshold than he became instinctively aware that some mystery was
there.

In a few seconds the amazing truth became apparent, for when he entered
the dining-room, to the left of the hall, he started, and an involuntary
exclamation of surprise escaped him.  The place was empty, devoid of
every stick of furniture!

From room to room he dashed, only to find that everything had been
mysteriously removed.  In the few brief hours or his absence Doctor
Petrovitch had apparently fled, taking with him all his household
effects.

He stood in the hall utterly dumbfounded.

Why had Rolfe been there?  What had he been doing in the empty house?

The swift manner in which the removal had been effected increased the
mystery, for he had not left the Doctor till five o'clock.  Besides, he
had no doubt dined with his daughter Maud and with Marion, and they
would not leave until about eight o'clock.

Again, a removal of that magnitude, requiring at least two vans, after
dark could not possibly be effected without attracting the notice of the
constable on duty!

Perhaps the police really did know who carried out the sudden change of
residence.  Anyhow, the whole affair was a complete enigma which amazed
and stupefied him.

Presently, when he had somewhat recovered from his surprise, he ascended
the stairs, his footsteps now echoing strangely through the empty place,
and there found that the drawing-room, and, in fact, all the other
rooms, had been completely and quickly cleared.  The carpets had in some
cases been left, but in the hasty removal curtains had been torn down
from the rings, leaving cornices and poles, and the grand piano
remained, it being apparently too large and heavy for rapid transit.

He ascended, even to the servants' rooms on the top floor, but found
scarcely a vestige of furniture left.

In one back room, a small half-garret with a slightly eloping roof, he
noticed a cupboard which curiosity led him to open, as he had opened
other cupboards.  As he did so, he saw a bundle upon the floor, as
though it had been hastily thrown there.

As he pulled it forth it unrolled, and he then saw that it was a woman's
light grey tweed skirt and coat.

The latter felt damp to his touch, and as he held it up to examine it he
saw that the breast and sleeve were both saturated with blood!

It dropped from his nerveless fingers.  Some secret crime had been
committed in that house, so suddenly and mysteriously divested of its
furniture.

But what?

Max Barclay, pale as death, stood gazing around him, staggered,
bewildered, horrified, scarce daring to breathe.

Why had Charles Rolfe fled so hurriedly and secretly from the place?

CHAPTER FIVE.

WHAT A CONSTABLE SAW.

Slowly Max Barclay regained possession of his senses.  The discovery had
so staggered him that, for a few moments, he had stood there in that
room, staring at the woman's tweed coat, transfixed in horror.

There was some great and terrible mystery there, and with it Charlie
Rolfe, the man whom he had so implicitly trusted, his most intimate
friend, and brother of the woman who was all the world to him, was
closely associated.

He glanced around the bare garret in apprehension.  All was so weird and
unexpected that a queer, uncanny feeling had crept over him.  What could
have occurred to have caused this revolution in the Doctor's house?

Here in that house, only a few hours ago, he had smoked calmly with
Petrovitch, the studious Servian patriot, the man whom the Servians
worshipped, and who was the right hand of his sovereign the King.  When
they had chatted of Maud's flirtation there had been no suggestion of
departure.  Indeed, the Doctor had invited him to return after dinner,
as he so often did.  Max was an easy, gay, careless man of the world,
yet he was fond of study, and fond of the society of clever men like
Petrovitch.  The latter was well-known in literary circles on the
Continent by reason of having written a most exhaustive history of the
Ottoman Empire.  That night Marion, his well-beloved, had no doubt dined
at that house, prior to going to the concert with Maud.  At least she
would be aware of something that might give a clue to this extraordinary
and hurried flight, if not to the ugly stain upon the woman's dress
lying upon the floor at his feet.

He was undecided how next to act.  Should he go to the police-station
and inquire of the inspector whether removing vans had been noticed by
the constable on the beat, or should he take a cab to Queen's Hall to
try and find Marion and Maud?

He glanced at his watch, and saw that by the time he got to the concert
they would in all probability have left.  Marion was compelled to be in
by eleven o'clock, therefore Maud would no doubt come out with her.
Indeed, in a quarter of an hour his friend's daughter would be due to
return there.

This decided him, and, without more ado, he left the house.  Was it
worth while at present, he reflected, saying anything to the police
regarding the blood-stained garment?  Charlie might give the
explanation.  He would see him before the night was out.

Therefore, finding a constable at the corner of Earl's Court Road, he
inquired of him if he had noticed any removing vans before the house in
question.  The man replied that he had only come on duty at ten,
therefore, it would be best if he went to the police-station, to which
he directed him.

"If the man on duty saw any removing vans in the evening, he would
certainly report it," the constable added politely, and Barclay then
went in the direction he indicated.

A quarter of an hour later he stood in the police-office, while the
inspector turned over the leaves of the big book in which reports of
every untoward or suspicious occurrence are entered for reference, in
case of civil actions or other eventualities.

At first he could find nothing, but at last he exclaimed:

"There's something here.  I suppose this is it.  Listen: P.C.  Baldwin,
when he came off duty, reported to the station-sergeant that two large
pantechnicon vans and a small covered van of Harmer's Stores,
Knightsbridge, drove up at 8:10 to Number 127a, Cromwell Road, close to
Queen's Gate Gardens, and with seven men and a foreman removed the whole
of the furniture.  The constable spoke to the foreman, and learned that
it was a sudden order given by the householder, a Dr Petrovitch, a
foreigner, for his goods to be removed before half-past ten that night,
and stored at the firm's depository at Chiswick."

"But they must have done it with marvellous alacrity!"  Max remarked, at
the same time pleased to have so quickly discovered the destination of
the Doctor's household goods.

"Bless you, sir," answered the inspector, "Harmer's can do anything.
They'd have sent twenty vans and cleared out the place in a quarter of
an hour if they'd contracted to do so.  You know they can do anything,
and supply anything from a tin-tack to a live monkey."

"Then they've been stored at Chiswick, eh?"

"No doubt, sir.  The constable would make all inquiry.  You know
Harmer's place at Chiswick, not far from Turnham Green railway station?
At the office in Knightsbridge they'd tell you all about it.  This
foreign doctor was a friend of yours, I suppose?"

"Yes, a great friend," replied Barclay.  "The fact is, I'm much puzzled
over the affair.  Only late this afternoon I was in his study, smoking
and talking, but he told me nothing about his sudden removal."

"Ah, foreigners are generally pretty shifty customers, sir," was the
officer's remark.  "If you'd seen as much as I have of 'em, when I was
down at Leman Street, you'd think twice before you trusted one.  Of
course, no reflection intended on your friend, sir."

"But there are foreigners who are gentlemen," Max ventured to suggest.

"Yes, there may be.  I haven't met many, and we have to deal with all
classes, you know.  But tell me the circumstances," added the inspector,
scenting mystery in this sudden flight.  "Petrovitch might be some City
speculator who had suddenly been ruined, or a bankrupt who had
absconded."

Max Barclay was, however, not very communicative.  Perhaps it was
because of Charlie's inexplicable presence in that deserted house, or
perhaps on account of the inspector's British antipathy towards
foreigners; nevertheless, he said nothing regarding that woman's coat
with the tell-tale mark of blood.

Besides, the Doctor and Maud must be somewhere in the vicinity.  No
doubt he would come round to Dover Street in the morning and explain his
unusual removal.  The discovery of Rolfe's presence there was
nevertheless inexplicable.  The more he reflected upon it, the more
suspicious it seemed.  The inspector's curiosity had been aroused by
Max's demeanour.  The latter had briefly related how he had called, to
find the house empty, and both occupier, his daughter, and the servants
gone.

"Did you see any servant when you were there this evening?"

"Yes; the man-servant Costa."

"Ah, a foreigner!  Old or young?"

"Middle-aged."

"A devoted retainer of his master, of course."

"I believe so."

"Then he may have been in his master's secret--most probably was.  When
a master suddenly flies he generally confides in his man.  I've known
that in many instances.  What nationality was this Petrovitch?"

"Servian."

"Oh, we don't get many of those people in London.  They come from the
East somewhere, don't they--a half-civilised lot?"

"Doctor Petrovitch is perfectly civilised, and a highly-cultured man,"
Max responded.  "He is a statesman and diplomat."

"What!  Is he the Minister of Servia?"

"He was--in Berlin, Constantinople, and other places."

"Then there may be something political behind it," the officer
suggested, beaming as though some great flash of wisdom had come to him.
"If so, it don't concern us.  England's a free country to all the scum
of Europe.  This doctor may be flying from some enemy.  Russian refugees
often do.  I've heard some queer tales about them, more strange than
what them writers put in sixpenny books."

"Yes," remarked Barclay, "I expect you've had a pretty big experience of
foreigners down in Whitechapel."

"And at Vine Street, too, sir," was the man's reply, as he leaned
against the edge of his high desk, over which the flaring gas jets
hissed.  "Nineteen years in the London police gives one an intimate
acquaintance with the undesirable alien.  Your story to-night is a queer
one.  Would you like me to send a man round to the house with you in
order to give it a look over?"

Max reflected in an instant that if that were done the woman's dress
would be discovered.

"Well--no," he replied.  "At present I think it would be scarcely worth
while.  I think I know where I shall find the Doctor in the morning.
Besides, a friend of mine is engaged to his daughter, so he'll be
certain to know their whereabouts."

"Very well--as you wish.  But," he said, "if you can't find where
they're all disappeared to, give us a call again, and we'll try to
assist you to the best of our ability."

Max thanked him.  A ragged pickpocket, held by two constables, was at
that moment brought in and placed in the railed dock, making loud
protests of "I'm quite innocent, guv'nor.  It warn't me at all.  I was
only a-lookin' on!"

So Barclay, seeing that the inspector would be occupied in taking the
charge, thanked him and left.

Outside, he reflected whether he should go direct to Charlie's chambers
in Jermyn Street.  His first impulse was to do so, but somehow he viewed
Rolfe with suspicion.  If his friend had not seen him--and he believed
he had not--then for the present it was best that he should hold his
secret.

Perhaps the Doctor had sent a telegram to his own chambers.  He would
surely never leave London without sending him word.  Therefore Max
hailed a passing cab and drove to Dover Street.

His chambers, on the first floor, were cosy and well-furnished,
betraying a taste in antique of the Louis XIV period.  Odd articles of
furniture he had picked up in out-of-the-way places, while several of
the pictures were family portraits brought from Kilmaronock Castle.

The red-carpeted sitting-room, with its big inlaid writing-table, bought
from an old chateau on the Loire, its old French chairs and modern
book-case, was lit only by the green-shaded reading lamp, beneath which
were some letters where his man had placed them.

On a small table at the side was a decanter of whisky, a syphon,
glasses, and cigars, and beside them his letters.  Eagerly he turned
them over for a telegram, but there was none.  Neither was there a
letter from the Doctor.  On the writing-table stood the telephone
instrument.  It might have been rung while his man Gustave had been
absent.  That evening he had sent him on a message down to Croydon, and
he had not yet returned.

He pushed his opera-hat to the back of his head, and stood puzzled as to
how he should act.  Green had told him that is master had left for the
Continent, and yet had he not with his own eyes seen him fly from that
house in Cromwell Road?

Yes; there was a mystery--a deep, inexplicable mystery.  There was not a
doubt of it!

CHAPTER SIX.

MENTIONS A CURIOUS CONFESSION.

When about ten o'clock next morning Mr Warner, buyer of the costumes at
Cunnington's, noticed the tall, athletic figure of the young man in
brown tweeds known as Mr Evans of Dover Street advance across the drab
carpet with which the "department" was covered, he smiled within
himself.

The "young ladies" of Cunnington's were not allowed any flirtations.  It
was "the sack" at a moment's notice for any girl being found flirting
either with one of the male assistants or with an outsider, though he be
a good customer.  Cunnington's hundred and one rules, with fines ranging
from threepence to half-a-crown, were stringent ones.  Mr Cunnington
himself, a short, black-bearded man, of keen business instinct, was a
kindly master; but in such a huge establishment with its hundreds of
employees, rules must of necessity, be adhered to.  Nevertheless, the
buyers or headmen of the various departments each controlled their own
assistants, and some being more lenient than others towards the girls,
rules were very often broken.

Cunnington's was, therefore, known to be one of the most comfortable
"cribs" in the trade.  Assistants who came up to London in search of a
billet always went to see Mr Cunnington, and happy he or she who
obtained a personal introduction to him.  He had earned his success by
dint of hard work.  Originally an assistant himself in a Birmingham
shop, he had gone into business for himself in Oxford Street, in one
small establishment, and had, by fair dealing and giving good value,
prospered, until great rows of windows testified to the fortune he had
amassed.

Unlike most employers in the drapery trade, he was generous to a degree,
and he appreciated devoted service.  In his great shops he had many old
hands.  Some, indeed, had been with him ever since his first beginning.
Those were his trusted lieutenants, of whom "Warner of the Costumes" was
one.

What Warner said was never queried, and, being a kindly man, the girls
in his department did pretty much as they liked.

Max Barclay, or Mr Evans as he had several times given his name, had
run the gauntlet of the shopwalkers of the outer shops, and penetrated
anxiously to the costumes.  At that hour there were no customers.
Before eleven there is but little shopping in Oxford Street.  Buyers
then see travellers, who come in their broughams, and assistants
re-arrange and display their stocks.

On entering the department, Max at once caught sight of the tall
fair-haired girl who, with her back to him, was arranging a linen
costume upon a stand.

Two other girls glanced across at him, but, knowing the truth, did not
ask what he required.  He was Miss Rolfe's admirer, they guessed, for
men did not usually come in alone and buy twenty-guinea ready-made
costumes for imaginary relatives as he had done.

He was standing behind her before she turned suddenly, and blushed in
surprise.  Warner, sitting in his little glass desk, noticed the look
upon the girl's face and fully realised the situation.  He liked
Marion's brother, while the girl herself was extremely modest and an
excellent saleswoman.  He knew that Charles Rolfe and this Mr Evans
were friends, and that fact had prevented him from forbidding the
flirtation to continue.

Evans was evidently a gentleman.  Of that he had no doubt.

"Why!" she exclaimed to her lover.  "This is really a great surprise.
You are early?"

"Because I wanted to see you, Marion," he answered, quickly.

She noticed his anxiety, and in an instant grew alarmed.

"Why, what's the matter?" she asked, glancing round to see whether the
other girls were watching her.  "You ought not to come here, you know,
Max.  I fear Mr Warner will object to you seeing me in business hours."

"Oh! never mind him, darling," he replied, in a low voice.  "I want to
ask you a question or two.  Where did you see Maud last night?"

"I met her at the door at Queen's Hall.  I was to go to Cromwell Road to
call for her, but she telegraphed to me at the last moment.  She was
with Charlie, she told me."

"And where is Charlie?"

"Gone to Servia.  He left Charing Cross by the mail last night."

Max reflected that his friend had not left as his sister supposed.

"And where did you leave Maud?"

"I walked to the `tube' station at Piccadilly Circus, and left her
there.  She went to Earl's Court Station, and I took a bus home.  She
told me that you'd been to see the Doctor earlier in the evening.  But
why do you ask all this?"

"Because--well, because, Marion, something unusual has occurred," he
replied.

"Unusual!" she echoed.  "What do you mean?"

"Did Maud tell you anything about her future movements last night--or
mention her father's intentions?"

"Intentions of what?"

"Of leaving the house in Cromwell Road."

"No; she told me nothing.  Only--"

"Only what?"

"Well, it struck me that she had something on her mind.  You know how
bright and merry she usually is.  Well, last night she seemed very
thoughtful, and I wondered whether she had had any little difference
with Charlie."

"You mean that they may have quarrelled?"

"I hardly think that likely," she said, quickly.  "Charlie is far too
fond of her, as you know."

"And her father does not altogether approve of it," Max remarked.  "He
has told me so."

"Poor Charlie!" the girl said, for she was very fond of her brother.  He
was always a good friend to her, and gave her money to buy her dresses
and purchase the few little luxuries which her modest stipend as a
shop-assistant would not allow her to otherwise possess.  "I'm sure he's
devoted to Maud.  And she's one of the best girls I know.  They'd make a
perfect pair.  But the Doctor's a foreigner, and doesn't really
understand Englishmen."

"Perhaps that's it," Max said, trying to assume a careless air, for he
felt that a hundred eyes were upon him.

Their position was not a very comfortable one, to say the least.  He
knew that he ought not to have come there during business hours, but the
mystery had so puzzled him that he felt he must continue his inquiries.
He had fully expected the morning post to bring him a line from the
Doctor.  But there had been nothing.

Both he and Maud had disappeared suddenly, leaving no trace behind--no
trace except that woman's coat with the stain of blood upon the breast.

Was it one of Maud's dresses, he wondered.  In the band he had noticed
the name of its maker--Maison Durand, of Conduit Street--one of the best
dressmakers in London.  True he had found it in the servants' quarters,
but domestics did not have their clothes made by Durand.

"But tell me, Max," said the girl, her fine eyes fixed upon her lover,
"what makes you suggest that the Doctor is about to leave Cromwell
Road."

"He has left already," was Max's reply.  "That's the curious part of
it."

"Left!  Moved away!"

"Yes.  I came to ask you what you know about it.  They've gone away
without a word!"

"How?  Why, you were there last evening!"

"I was.  But soon after I left, and while Maud was with you at the
concert, three vans came from Harmer's Stores and cleared out the whole
of the furniture."

"There wasn't a bill of sale, or something of that sort, I suppose?" she
suggested.

"Certainly not.  The Doctor is a wealthy man.  The copper mines of
Kaopanik bring him in a splendid income in themselves," Max said.  "No;
there's a mystery--a very great mystery about the affair."

"A mystery!  Tell me all about it!" she cried, anxiously, for Maud was
her best friend, while the Doctor had also been _extremely_ kind to her.

"I don't know anything," he responded.  "Except that the whole place by
half-past ten last night had been cleared out of furniture.  Only the
grand piano and a few big pieces have been left.  Harmer's have taken
the whole of it to their depository at Chiswick."

"Well, that's most extraordinary, certainly," she said, opening her eyes
in blank surprise.  "Maud must have known what was taking place.
Possibly that is why she was so melancholy and pensive."

"Did she say nothing which would throw any light upon their sadden
disappearance?"

Marion reflected for a few moments, her brows slightly knit in thought.

"Well, she said something about her father being much worried, but she
did not tell me why.  About a fortnight ago she told me that both she
and her father had many enemies, one of whom would not hesitate to kill
him if a chance occurred.  I tried to get from her the reason, but she
would not tell me."

"But you don't think that the Doctor has been the victim of an assassin,
do you?"  Max asked in apprehension.

"No; but Maud may have been," she answered.  "Killed?"

"I hope not, yet--"

"Why do you hesitate, Marion, to tell me all you know?" he urged.
"There is a mystery here which we must fathom."

"My brother knows nothing yet, I suppose."

Barclay hesitated.

"I suppose not," was his reply.

"Then, before I say anything, I must see him."

"But he's away in Servia, is he not?  He won't be back for six months."

"Then I must wait till he returns," she answered, decisively.

"Maud has told you something.  Come, admit it," he urged.

The girl was silent for a full minute.

"Yes," she sighed.  "She did tell me something."

"When?"

"Last night, as we were walking together to the station--something that
I refused to believe.  But I believe it now."

"Then you know the truth," he cried.  "If there had not been some unfair
play, the Doctor would never have disappeared without first telling me.
He has many times entrusted me with his secrets."

"I quite believe that he would have telegraphed or written," she said.
"He looked upon you as his best friend in London."

"And, Marion, this very fact causes me to suspect foul play," he said,
the recollection of that fugitive in the night flashing across his
brain.  "What do you, in the light of this secret knowledge, suspect?"

Her lips were closed tightly, and there was a strange look in her eyes.

"I believe, Max," she replied, in a low, hard voice, "that something
terrible must have happened to Maud!"

"Did she apprehend something?"

"I cannot tell.  She confessed to me something under a bond of secrecy.
Before I tell you I must consult Charlie--the man she loved so dearly."

"But are we not lovers, Marion?" he asked, in a low intense voice.
"Cannot you tell me what she said, in order that I may institute
inquiries at once.  Delay may mean the escape of the assassin if there
really has been foul play."

"I cannot betray Maud's confidence, Max," was her calm answer.

This response of hers struck him as implying that Maud had confessed
something not very creditable to herself, something which she, as a
woman, hesitated to tell him.  If this were actually true, however, why
should she reveal the truth to Maud's lover?  Would she not rather hide
it from him?

"But you will not see Charlie for months," he exclaimed, in dismay.
"What are we to do in the meantime?"

"We can only wait," she answered.  "I cannot break my oath to my
friend."

"Then you took an oath not to repeat what she told you?"

"She told me something amazing concerning--"

And she hesitated.

"Concerning herself," he added.  "Well?"

"It was a confession, Max--a--a terrible confession.  I had not a wink
of sleep last night for her words rang in my ears, and her face, wild
and haggard, haunted me in the darkness.  Ah! it is beyond credence--
horrible!--but--but, Max--leave me.  These people are noticing us.  I
will see you to-night, where you like.  Only go--go!  I can't bear to
talk of it!  Poor Maud!  What that confession must have cost her!  And
why?  Ah, I see it all now!  Because--because she knew that her end was
near!"

CHAPTER SEVEN.

CONTAINS SEVERAL REVELATIONS.

Max Barclay re-traced his steps along Oxford Street much puzzled.  What
Marion had told him was both startling and curious in face of the sudden
disappearance of the Doctor and his daughter.  If the latter had made a
confession, as she apparently had, then Marion was, after all, perfectly
within her right in not betraying her friend.

Yet what could that confession be?  Marion had said it was "a terrible
confession," and as he went along he tried in vain to imagine its
nature.

The morning was bright and sunlit, and Oxford Street was already busy.
About the Circus the ebb and flow of traffic had already begun, and the
windows of the big drapery shops were already attracting the feminine
crowds with their announcements of "summer sales" and baits of "great
bargains."

For a moment he paused at the kerb, then, entering a hansom, he drove to
Mariner's Stores, the great emporium in Knightsbridge, which had been
entrusted with the removal of the Doctor's furniture.

Without much difficulty he found the manager, a short, dapper, little
frock-coated freckled-faced business man, and explained the nature of
his inquiry.

The man seemed somewhat puzzled, and, going to a desk, opened a big
ledger and slowly turned the pages.

"I think there must be some mistake, sir," was his reply.  "We have had
no removal of that name yesterday."

"But they were at Cromwell Road late last night," Max declared.  "The
police saw them there."

"The police could not have seen any of our vans removing furniture from
Cromwell Road last night," protested the manager.  "See here for
yourself.  Yesterday there were four removals only--Croydon to Southsea,
Fitzjohn's Avenue to Lower Norwood, South Audley Street to Ashley
Gardens, and Elgin Avenue to Finchley.  Here they are," and he pointed
to the page whereon the particulars were inscribed.

"The goods in question were removed by you from Cromwell Road, and
stored in your depository at Chiswick."

"I think, sir, you really must be mistaken," replied the manager,
shaking his head.  "Did you see our vans there yourself?"

"No.  The police did, and made inquiry."

"With the usual result, I suppose, that they bungled, and told you the
wrong name."

"They've got it written down in their books."

"Well, all I can say is, that we didn't remove any furniture from the
road you mention."

"But it was at night."

"We do not undertake a job at night unless we receive a guarantee from
the landlord that the rent is duly paid, and ascertain that no money is
owing."

Max was now puzzled more than ever.

"The police say that the effects were sent to your depository," he
remarked, dissatisfied with the manager's assurance.

"In that case inquiry is very easy," he said, and walking to the
telephone he rang up the depository at Chiswick.

"Is that you, Merrick?" he asked over the 'phone.  "I say!  Have you
been warehousing any goods either yesterday or to-day, or do you know of
a job in Cromwell Road, at the house of a Doctor Petrovitch?"

For a full minute he waited the reply.  At last it came, and he heard it
to the end.

"No," he said, putting down the receiver and turning to Barclay.  "As I
expected.  They know nothing of the matter at the depository."

"But how do you account for your vans--two pantechnicons and a covered
van--being there?" he asked.

The manager shook his head.

"We have here the times when each job in London was finished, and when
the vans returned to the yard.  They were all in by 7:30.  Therefore,
they could not have been ours."

"Well, that's most extraordinary."

"Is it somebody who has disappeared?"

"Yes."

"Ah! the vans were, no doubt, painted with our names specially, in order
to mislead the police," he said.  "There's some shady transaction
somewhere, sir, depend upon it.  Perhaps the gentleman wanted to get his
things away, eh?"

"No.  He had no necessity for so doing.  He was quite well off--no
debts, or anything of that kind."

"Well, it's evident that if our name is registered in the police
occurrences the vans were painted with our name for some illegal
purpose.  The gentleman's disappeared, you say."

"Yes.  And--well, to tell you the truth, I suspect foul play."

"Have you told the police that?" asked the man, suddenly interested.

"No; not yet.  I've come to you first."

"Then if I were you I'd tell the police the result of your inquiries,"
the manager said.  "No doubt there's a crooked incident somewhere."

"That's just what I fear.  Quite a number of men most have been engaged
in clearing the place out."

"Have you been over it?  Is it entirely cleared?"

"Nearly.  The grand piano and a big book-case have been; left."

"I wonder if it's been done by professional removers, or by amateurs?"
suggested the manager.

"Ah!  I don't know.  If you saw the state of the place you'd know,
wouldn't you?"

"Most probably."

"Then if you'll come with me I'll be delighted to show you, and you can
give me your opinion."

So the pair entered a cab, and a quarter of an hour later were passing
along the hall of the empty house.  The manager of Harmer's removals
inspected room after room, noticed how the curtains had been torn down,
and noted in the fire grate of the drawing-room a quantity of tinder
where a number of papers seemed to have been burned.

"No," he said presently.  "This removal was carried out by amateurs, who
were in a very violent hurry.  Those vans were faked--bought, perhaps,
and repainted with our name.  It's evident that they deceived the
constable very cleverly."

"But the whole affair is so extraordinary?" gasped Max, staring at his
companion.

"Yes.  It would appear so.  Your friend, the Doctor, evidently wished to
get his goods away with the least possible delay and in the greatest
secrecy."

"But the employment of so many men did not admit of much secrecy,
surely!"

"They were only employed to load.  They did not unload.  Only the three
drivers probably know the destination of the furniture.  It was valuable
old stuff, I should say, if one is to judge by what is remaining."

"Yes, the place was well and comfortably furnished."

"Then I really think, sir, that if you suspect foul play it's your duty
to tell the police.  In cases like this an hour's delay is often fatal
to success in elucidating the mystery."  Max was undecided how to act.
It was his duty to tell the police his suspicions and show them that
blood-stained coat.  And yet he felt so certain that the Doctor must in
the course of the day take him into his confidence that he hesitated to
make a suggestion of foul play and thus bring the affair into public
prominence.

The fact that Harmer's name had been upon vans not belonging to that
firm was in itself sufficient proof that there had been a conspiracy
somewhere.

But of what nature was it?  What could possibly have been its object?
What was Maud's "terrible confession!"

The expert in removals was examining some litter in the dining-room.

"They evidently did not stop to pack anything," he remarked, "but simply
bundled it out with all possible speed.  One fact strikes me as very
peculiar."

"What is that?"

"Well, if they wanted to empty the place they might have done so,
leaving the curtains up, and the palms and things in the windows in
order to lead people to believe that the house was still occupied.
Apparently, however, they disregarded that precaution altogether."

"Yes.  That's true.  The object of the sudden flight is a complete
mystery," Max remarked.  He had not taken the man to the top room,
where, in the cupboard, the woman's dress was hidden.

"You say that the Doctor was rich.  Therefore, it wasn't to escape from
an execution threatened by the landlord."

"Certainly not."

"Well, you may rest assured, sir, that the removal was not effected by
professional men.  The way in which carpets have been torn up and
damaged, curtains torn from their rings, and crockery smashed in moving,
shows them to have been amateurs."

They had ascended to the front bedroom, wherein remained a large, heavy
old-fashioned mahogany chest of drawers, and he had walked across to
them.

"Indeed," he added.  "It almost looks as though it were the work of
thieves?"

"Thieves!  Why?"

"Well--look at this.  They had no keys, so they broke open the drawers,
and removed the contents," he answered.  "And look across there!"

He pointed to a small iron fireproof safe let into the wall--a safe
evidently intended originally as a place for the lady of the house to
keep her jewels.

The door stood ajar, and Max, as he opened it, saw that it was empty.

The curious part of the affair was that Max was convinced within himself
that when he had searched the house on the previous night that safe was
not there.  If it was, then the door must have been closed and
concealed.

He remembered most distinctly entering that room and looking around.
The chest of drawers had been moved since he was last there.  When he
had seen them they had been standing in their place concealing the iron
door of the safe, which, when shut, closed flush with the wall.  Someone
had been there since!  And whoever it was, had moved the heavy piece of
furniture and found the safe.

He examined the door, and from its blackened condition, the twisted
iron, and the broken lock, no second glance was needed to ascertain that
it had been blown open by explosives.

Whatever valuables Dr Petrovitch had kept there had disappeared.

The theory of theft was certainly substantiated by these discoveries.
Max stood by the empty safe silent and wondering.

"I noticed downstairs in the study that a board had been prised up, as
though somebody has been searching for something," the man from Harmer's
remarked.  "Probably the Doctor had something in his possession of which
the thieves desired to get possession."

"Well," said Max, "I must say that this safe being open looks as though
the affair has actually been the work of thieves.  If so, then where is
the Doctor, where is his daughter Maud, and where are the servants?"

"Yes.  I agree.  The whole affair is a complete mystery, sir," the other
replied.  "There have been thieves here without a doubt.  Perhaps the
Doctor knows all about it, but for some reason dare not utter a word of
complaint.  Indeed, that's my theory.  He may be in fear of them, you
know.  It's a gang that have done it, without a doubt."

"And a pretty ingenious gang, too," declared Max, with knit brows.

"They evidently made short work of all the furniture.  I wonder why they
took it, and where it is at present."

"If it has gone to a sale room the police could trace it," Max
suggested.

"Certainly.  But suppose it was transferred from the vans it was taken
away in to the vans of some depository, and removed, say, to Portsmouth
or Plymouth, and there stored?  It could be done quite easily, and would
never be traced."

"Yes.  But it's a big job to have made a whole houseful of furniture
disappear in a couple of hours."

"It is not so big as it first seems, sir.  I'd guarantee to clear a
house of this size in one hour, if necessary.  And the way they turned
out the things didn't take them very long.  They were in a desperate
hurry, evidently."

"Do you think that thieves did the work?"

"I'm very strongly of that opinion.  Everything points to it.  If I were
you I'd go back to the police and tell them about the safe, about that
chest of drawers, and the flooring in the study.  Somebody's been prying
about here, depend upon it."

Max stood, still undecided.  Did it not seem very much as though the
thieves had visited there after Charles Rolfe had fled so hurriedly?

CHAPTER EIGHT.

THE PAUPER OF PARK LANE.

About half-way up Park Lane--the one-sided row of millionaires'
residences that face Hyde Park--not far from the corner of that narrow
little turning, Deanery Street, stood a great white house, one of a
short row.  The windows were protected from the sun by outside blinds of
red and buff-striped holland, and the first floor sills were gay with,
geraniums.

The house was one of imposing importance, and dwarfed its neighbours,
being both higher, larger, and more artistic.  On the right side dwelt
one of Manchester's cotton kings, and on the other a duke whose
rent-roll was one of the biggest in the United Kingdoms.  The centre
house, however, was far more prosperous-looking than the others, and was
often remarked upon by country cousins as they passed up and down upon
omnibuses.  It was certainly one of the finest in the whole of that
select thoroughfare where rents alone were ruinous, and where the
possession of a house meant that one's annual income must run into six
figures.  The mere nobility of England cannot afford to live in Park
Lane nowadays.  It is reserved for the kings of Britain's commerce, the
Stock Exchange speculator, or the get-rich-quick financier.

Those who read these lines know well the exterior of many of the houses
of notable people who live there.  Some are in excellent taste, while
others betray the blatant arrogance of the man who, risen from penury,
has suddenly found himself a controller of England's destinies, a
Birthday Knight, and the husband of a woman whom the papers have
suddenly commenced to dub "the beautiful Lady So-and-So."  Other houses
are quiet and sober in their exterior, small, modest, and unobstructive,
the town residences of men of great wealth, who, posing as gentlemen,
are hoping for a peerage.

The hopes in Park Lane are many.  Almost every household possesses a
secret ambition, some to shine in Society, other in politics, and some
even in literature.  The really wealthy man sneers at a baronetcy, an
honour which his tea-merchant received last year, and as for a
knighthood, well, he can plank down his money this afternoon and buy one
just as he bought a cigar half an hour ago in Bond Street.  He must have
a title, for his wife wants to be known by the name of his country
place, and he has secret ambitions for a seat in the Lords.  And so in
every house in that long, one-sided row are hopes eternal which rise
regularly every year towards the end of June.

Diamond, copper, soap, pork, and railway "kings" who dwell there are a
curious assortment, yet the combined wealth of that street alone would
be sufficient to pay off our National Debt and also run a
respectable-sized kingdom for a year or two.

Almost every man could realise a million sterling, and certainly one of
the very wealthiest among them was old Samuel Statham, the man who owned
and lived in that house with the red-striped sun-blinds.

While Max Barclay was engaged in his investigations at the deserted
house in Cromwell Road, old Sam was standing at the window of his study,
a large front room on the ground floor overlooking the Park.  It was a
quiet, soberly-furnished apartment, the carpet of which was so soft that
one's feet fell noiselessly, while over the mantelshelf was a large
life-sized Venus by a modern French artist, the most notable picture in
the Salon five years ago.

The leather-covered chairs were all heavy and old-fashioned, the books
in uniform bindings of calf and gold, and the big writing-table of the
early Victorian period.  Upon the table stood a great silver candelabra
fitted with electric lamps, while littered about the floor were
quantities of folded papers and business documents of various kinds.

There was but little comfort about the room.  Artistic taste and luxury
are commonly associated with Park Lane, therefore the stranger would
have been greatly surprised if he had been allowed a peep within.  But
there was a curious bet about the house.

No stranger had ever been known to pass beyond the big swing-glass doors
half-way down the hall.  No outsider had ever set foot within.

Levi, the hook-nosed old butler, in his well-cut clothes and spotless
linen, was a zealous janitor.  No one, upon any pretext whatsoever, was
allowed to pass beyond the glass doors.  His master was a little
eccentric, it was said, and greatly disliked intruders.  He hated the
inquisitiveness of the modern Press, and always feared lest his house
should be described and photographed as those of his neighbours
constantly were.  Therefore all strangers were rigorously excluded.

Some gossip had got about concerning this.  A year ago the wealthy old
financier had been taken suddenly ill, and his doctor was sent for from
Cavendish Square.  But even he was not allowed to pass the
rigidly-guarded frontier.  His patient saw him in the hall, and there he
diagnosed the ailment and prescribed.  The doctor in question, a
well-known physician, remarked upon old Sam's eccentricity over a
dinner-table in Mayfair, and very soon half smart London were talking
and wondering why nobody was ever invited to the table of Samuel
Statham.

In the City, as head of Statham Brothers, foreign bankers, whose offices
in Old Broad Street are known to every City man, he was always affable,
yet very shrewd.  He and his brother could drive hard bargains, but they
were always charitable, and the name of the firm constantly figured for
a substantial amount in the lists in response to any charitable appeal.

From small beginnings--the early days of both brothers being shrouded in
mystery--they had risen to become what they now were, a house second
only to the Rothschilds in financial power, a house whose assistance was
sought by kings and emperors, and whose interests were world-wide.

That morning old Sam Statham appeared unusually agitated.  Rising at
five o'clock, as was his habit summer and winter, he had been hard at
work for hours when Levi brought him his tiny cup of black Turkish
coffee.  Then, glancing at the clock upon his desk, he had risen, gone
to the window, and gazed out eagerly, as though in search of someone.

It was eight o'clock, and there were plenty of people about.  But,
though he looked up and down the thoroughfare, he was disappointed.  So
he snapped his thin fingers impatiently and returned to his writing.

His personal appearance was truly insignificant.  When, in the street,
he was pointed out to people as the great Samuel Statham, they
invariably expressed astonishment.  There was nothing of the blatant
millionaire about him.  On the contrary, he was a thin, grey,
sad-looking man, rather short of stature, with a face very broad in the
brow and very narrow at the chin, ending with a small, scraggy white
beard clipped to a point.  His cheeks were hollow, his dark eyes sunken,
the skin upon his brow tightly stretched, his lips pale and thin, and
about his clean-shaven upper lip a hardness that was in entire
opposition with his generous instincts towards his less fortunate fellow
men.

One of his peculiarities of dress was that he always wore a piece of
greasy black satin ribbon, tied loosely in a bow as a cravat.  The same
piece did duty both by day and at evening.

His clothes, for the most part, hung upon his lean, shrunken limbs as
though they had been made for a much more robust man, and his hats were
indescribably greasy and out of date.  When he went to the City Levi
compelled him to put on his best silk hat and a decent frock coat, but
often of an afternoon he might be seen sitting alone in the Park and
mistaken for some poor, broken-down old man the sadness of whose face
compelled sympathy.

This carelessness of dress appears to be one of the inevitable results
of great fortune.  A man should never be judged by his coat nowadays.
The struggling clerk who lives in busy Brixton or cackling Croydon
usually gives himself greater airs, and dresses far better than the head
of the firm, while the dainty typewriter wears prettier blouses and
neater footgear than his own out-door daughters, with their slang, their
"pals," and their distorted ideas of maiden modesty.

But old Sam Statham had neither kith nor kin.  He was a lonely man--how
utterly lonely only he himself knew.  He had only his perpetual
calculations of finance, his profit and loss accounts, and occasional
chats with the ever-faithful Levi to occupy his days.  He seldom if ever
left London.  Even the stifling August days, when his clerks went to the
mountains or the sea, he still remained in London, because, as he openly
declared, he hated to mix with strangers.

Curiously enough, almost the only man he trusted was his private
secretary, Charlie Rolfe, the smart young man who came there from ten
o'clock till two each day, wrote his private letters, and was paid a
very handsome salary.

Usually old Sam was a very quiet-mannered man whom nothing disturbed.
But that morning he was distinctly upset.  He had scarcely slept a
single wink, and his deep-sunken eyes and almost haggard face told of a
great anxiety wearing out his heart.

He tried to add up a long column of figures upon a sheet of paper before
him, but gave it up with a deep sigh.  Again he rose, glanced out of the
window, audibly denounced in unmeasured terms a motor-'bus which,
tearing past, caused his room to shake, and then returned to his table.

But he was far too impatient to sit there long, for again he rose and
paced the room, his grey brows knit in evident displeasure, his thin,
bony hands clenched tightly, and from his lips escaping muttered
imprecations upon some person whom he did not name.

Once he laughed--a hard little laugh.  His lip curled in exultant
triumph as he stuck his hands into the pockets of his shabby jacket and
again went to look over the _brise-brise_ curtains of pale pink silk
into the roadway.

For a moment he looked, then, with a start, he stood glaring out.  Next
instant he sprang back from the window with a look of terror upon his
blanched cheeks.  He had caught sight of somebody whose presence there
was both unwelcome and unexpected, and the encounter had filled him with
anxiety and dismay.

As he had gazed inquiringly forth, with his face close to the
window-pane, his eyes had met those of a man of about his own age,
shabby, with grey, ragged hair, threadbare clothes, broken boots, and a
soft grey felt hat, darkly stained around the band--a tramp evidently.
The stranger was leaning idly against the park railings, evidently
regarding the house with some wonder, when the sad face of its master
had appeared.

The pair glared at each other for one single second.  Then Sam Statham,
recognising in the other's crafty eyes a look of cruel, relentless
revenge, started back into the room, breathless and deathly pale.  He
staggered to his chair, supporting himself by clutching at its back.

"Then they did not lie!" he gasped aloud.  "He--he's alive--therefore so
it's all over!  I--I saw his intentions plainly written in his face.
I've played the game and lost!  He has returned, therefore I must face
the inevitable.  Yes," he added, with that same bitter laugh, only this
time it was the hoarse, discordant laugh of a man who found himself
cornered, without any possible means of escape.  "Yes--this is the end--
I must die!--to-day!"  And he whispered, glancing round the room as
though in terror of his own voice, "Yes--before the sun sets."

CHAPTER NINE.

IN WHICH LEVI GIVES ADVICE.

For fully five minutes Samuel Statham stood steadying himself by the
back of his chair.  His face was white and rigid, his jaw set, his
breathing quick and excited, his hands trembling, his face full of a
sudden horror.

He had entirely changed.  The sight of that shabby stranger had filled
him with fear.

Once or twice he glanced furtively at the window.  Then, straightening
himself in a vain endeavour to remain calm, he bent and crept back to
the window in order to ascertain whether the man still remained.  Bent
and out of sight he approached the lace-edged curtain and peered through
unseen.

Yes; the fellow was still there.  He had lit his pipe with calm
unconcern, and was leaning back against the railings in full view of the
house.  The man's attitude was that of complete triumph.  Ah! what a
fool he had been to have shown himself so openly as he had done!  To
think that this man of all men was still alive!

He crept back again, trembling.  His face was haggard and bloodless, the
countenance of a man whose future was but a blank--the dismal blank of
the grave.

His whole body trembled as he sank into his writing-chair, and, leaning
his elbows upon the desk, he buried his face in his hands and sobbed.
Yes; he, the hard-headed financier, whose influence was felt in every
corner of the world, the man who controlled millions and who loaned
great sums to certain of the rulers of Europe, sobbed aloud.

"Ah!" he cried to himself, "I was a fool when I disbelieved them.  I
thought that blackmail was their object in telling me the story of how
that man was alive and had been seen.  Therefore I only laughed at them
and took no precaution.  Ah!  I was a fool, and my foolishness must end
fatally.  There is no way out of it for me--only death.  I've been a
fool--a confounded fool.  I ought to have made certain; I ought not to
have taken any risk.  I'm wiser now than I was then.  Age has brought me
wisdom as well as destroying my belief in the honesty of men and the
loyalty of friends"; and as he sighed heavily, his brow still bent upon
his hand, he touched the bell, and old Levi appeared.

"Levi," he said, in a low unusual voice, "go quietly to that window and,
without attracting attention, look outside at a man opposite."

The faithful old servant, somewhat surprised at these rather unusual
instructions, walked stealthily to the window and peered through the
lace insertion of the _brise-brise_.

Scarcely had he done so than, with a cry, he withdrew, and facing his
master, stood staring at him.

"Did you see anyone, Levi?" asked his master, raising his head suddenly.

"Yes," was the hoarse whisper of the man who stood there, white-faced in
fear.  "It's him!  I--I thought you said he was dead."

"No; he isn't!  He's there in the flesh."

"And what are we to do?"

"What can we do?  He recognised me a moment ago, and he's watching the
house."

"Which means that you had better leave England for a considerable time."

"What!" cried Statham, in quick reproof.  "What--run away?  Never!"

"But--well, in the circumstances, don't you scent danger--a very grave
danger?" asked the old servant whose devotion to his master had always
been so marked.

"When I am threatened I always face my accuser.  I shall do so now," was
the great man's calm reply, even though it were in absolute
contradiction to his attitude only a few moments before.  Perhaps it was
that he did not wish old Levi to know his fear.

"But--but that can only result in disaster," remarked the old servant,
who never addressed his master as "sir"--the pair were on too intimate
terms for that.  "If I might presume to advise, I think--"

"No, Levi," snapped the other; "you haven't any right to give advice in
this affair.  I know my own business best, surely?"

"And that man knows as much as you do--and more."

"They told me he was alive, and I--fool that I was--disbelieved them!"
the old millionaire cried.  "And there he is now, watching outside like
a terrier outside a rat-hole.  And I'm the rat, Levi--caught in my own
trap!"

"Is there no way out of this?" asked the other.  "Surely you can escape
if you so desire--get away to America, or to the Continent."

"And what's the use.  He'd follow.  And even if he didn't, think of what
he can tell if he goes to the police."

"Yes; he could tell sufficient to cause Statham Brothers to close their
doors--eh?" remarked the old servant very seriously.

"That's just it.  I've been a confounded idiot.  Rolfe warned me only
the other day that the fellow was in London, but I said I wouldn't
believe him until I saw the man with my own eyes.  To-day I have
actually seen him, and there can be no mistake.  He's the man that--that
I--"

His sentence remained unfinished, for he sank into his chair and
groaned, covered his face again with his hands in an attitude of deep
remorse, while Levi stood by watching in silence.

"Rolfe could help you in this matter," the man exclaimed at last.
"Where is he?"

"I don't know.  I sent him yesterday to Belgrade, but last night he
telephoned that he had lost the train."

"Then he may have left at nine o'clock this morning?"

"Most probably."

"Then you must recall him by wire."

"No telegram can reach him till he gets to Servia, for I don't know
whether he's gone from Ostend or Paris."

"They'd know in the City.  Why not ask them?"

"No; they wouldn't know."

"Why?"

"Because Rolfe had with him a big sum in German notes and a quantity of
securities belonging to the National Bank of Servia.  In that case he
would not let anyone know his route, for fear of thieves.  It is one of
my strictest orders to him.  Why he lost the train last night I can't
tell."

"Well, it's a thousand pities we can't get at him, for he's the only man
to help you out--of this difficulty."

"Yes; I quite agree.  That shabby, down-at-heel man waiting outside is
my master, Levi--the master of Statham Ltd.  My future is in his hands!"

He had raised his head, and sat staring at the beautiful picture upon
the wall before him, the picture with its wonderful tints which had been
copied in a hundred different places.

His countenance was haggard and drawn, and in his eyes was a look of
unspeakable terror, as though he were looking into his own grave, as
indeed at that moment he was.

The sombre melancholy-looking Levi stood watching for a moment, and
then, creeping to the window, looked out into the sunshine of Park Lane.

The ragged tramp was still there, idling against the railings, and
smoking a short, dirty pipe quite unconcernedly.  He was watching for
the re-appearance of that white, startled face at the window--the face
of the great Samuel Statham.  "He's still outside, I suppose?" queried
the man at the other end of the room.

Levi replied in the affirmative, whereat old Samuel clenched his teeth
and muttered something which sounded like an oration.  He was condemning
himself for his disbelief in his secretary's warnings.

"Had I listened to him I could easily have saved myself--I could have
prevented him from coming here," he said in a meaning voice.

"Yes; it would not have been difficult to have prevented this.  After
what has occurred that blackguard has no right to live."

"Aha! then you believe me, Levi?" cried the wretched man.  "You do not
blame me?" he asked, anxiously.

"He was to blame--not you."

"Then I was right in acting as I did, you think--right to protect my
interests."

"You were right in your self-defence," the man answered, somewhat grey,
sphinx-like, for Levi was a man whose thoughts one could never read from
his thin, grey, expressionless face.  "But you were injudicious when you
disregarded Rolfe's warning."

"I thought he had his own interests to serve," was Statham's reply.

"Frankly, you believed it to be an attempt at blackmail.  I quite follow
you.  But do you think Rolfe would be guilty of such a thing?"

"My dear Levi, when a poor man is in love, as Rolfe is, it is a sore
temptation to obtain by any means, fair or foul, sufficient to marry and
support a wife.  You and I were both young once--eh?  And we thought
that our love would last always.  Where is yours to-day, and"--he
sighed--"where is mine?"

"You are right," replied the old servant slowly, with a slight sigh.
"You refer to little Marie.  Ah!  I can see her now, as plainly as she
was then, forty years ago.  How beautiful she was, how dainty, how
perfect, and--ah!--how well you loved her.  And what a tragedy--the
tragedy of your life--the tragedy that has ever been hidden from the
world--the--"

"No!  Enough, Levi!" cried his master hoarsely, staring straight before
him.  "Do not recall that to me, especially at this moment.  It was the
great tragedy of my life, until--until this present one which--which
threatens to end it."

"But you are going to face the music.  You have said!"

"I may--and I may not."

Levi was silent again.  Only the low ticking of the dock broke the
quiet, and was followed by the rumble of a motor-'bus and the consequent
tremor in the room.

"At any rate, Samuel Statham will never act the coward," the millionaire
remarked at last, in a soft but distinct voice.

"Rolfe can help you.  Where is he--away just at the moment that he's
wanted," Levi said.

"My fault!  My fault, Levi!" his master declared.  "I disbelieved him,
and sent him out to Servia to show him that I did not credit what he
told me."

"You were a fool!" said Levi, bluntly.  He never minced words when his
master spoke confidentially.

"I know I was.  I have already admitted it," exclaimed the financier.
"But what puzzles me is that that man outside is really alive and in the
flesh.  I never dreamed that he would return to face me.  He was dead--I
could have sworn it."

"So you saw him dead--eh?"

Old Statham drew a quick breath, and his face went ashen, for he saw how
he had betrayed himself.  Next instant he had recovered from his
embarrassment and, bracing himself with an effort, said:

"No--no, of course not.  I--I only know what--well, what I've been told.
I was misled wilfully by my enemies."

Levi looked straight into his face with a queer expression of disbelief.
Statham noticed it, and it unnerved him.

He had inadvertently made confession, and Levi did not credit his
denial.

The peril of the situation was complete!

CHAPTER TEN.

SHOWS A WOMAN'S PERIL.

Several hours had gone by, hours which Samuel Statham spent, seated in a
deep easy-chair near the empty fire grate, reviewing his long and
eventful life.

With his head buried in his hands, he reflected upon all the past--its
tragedy and its prosperity.  True, he had grown rich, wealthier than he
had ever dreamed, but, ah! at what a cost!  The world knew nothing.  The
world of finance, known in the City, looked upon him as a power to be
reckoned with.  By a stroke of that stubby, ink-stained pen which lay
upon the writing-table he could influence the markets in Paris or
Berlin.  His aid and advice were sought by men who were foremost in the
country's commerce and politics, and he granted loans to princes and to
kingdoms.  And yet the tragedy of his own heart was a bitter one, and
his secret one that none dreamed.

He, like many another world-famous man, had a skeleton in his cupboard.
And that day it had seen the light, and the sight of it had caused him
to begin the slow and painful process of putting his house in order,
prior to quitting it for ever--prior to seeking death by his own hand.

For nearly an hour he had been huddled up in the big leather armchair
almost immovable.  He had scrawled two or three letters, and written the
superscription upon their envelopes, and from his writing-table he had
taken a bundle of letters tied with a faded blue ribbon.  One by one he
had read them through, and then, placing them in the grate, he had
applied a match and burnt them all.  Some other business documents
followed, as well as an old parchment deed, which he first tried to
tear, but at last burned until it was merely twisted tinder.

It was now afternoon, and the silence of that house of mystery, wherein
no one save Charles Rolfe ever penetrated, was unbroken.  Across the
soft green carpet lay a bar of warm sunlight that seemed strangely out
of place in that sombre apartment, with its despairing owner, while
outside the shabby stranger was no longer to be seen.

He might be lurking in the vicinity, but Levi had an hour ago entered
and informed his master that the patient vigil had been relaxed.

Old Sam had dismissed him with a grunt of dissatisfaction.  Those last
hours of his life he wished to spend alone.

He had been trying to see some way out of the _cul-de-sac_ in which he
found himself, but there was none.  That shabby wayfarer--his worst
enemy, had found him.  Years ago he had sworn a terrible vengeance, but
for secret reasons, known only to Statham himself, he had laughed his
threats to scorn.  Then came his death, and Statham was free, free to
prosper, become rich and powerful, and use his great wealth for good or
for evil as he felt so inclined.

He had, however, used it for good.  His contributions to charities were
many and handsome.  Among other things, he had built and endowed a wing
of the London Hospital, for which his Majesty signified his intention of
conferring a baronetcy upon him.  But that honour he declined.  To his
brother in the City he had said, "I don't wish for any honour, and I'll
remain plain Sam to the end of my days."  There was a reason--a secret
reason--why he was unable to receive the distinction.  None knew it--
none even dreamed.

The papers expressed wonder at the refusal, and people called him a
fool.  In Old Broad Street men were envious, and laughed in their
sleeves.  Yet if they had known the real reason they would surely have
stood aghast.

One day, however, his private secretary, young Rolfe, had come to him
with a strange and improbable tale.  His enemy was alive and well, and
was, moreover, actually in England!  He questioned the young man, and
found certain discrepancies in the statement.  Therefore, shrewd and
far-seeing, he refused to believe it, and suspected blackmail to be the
ultimate intention.  He did not, however, suspect Rolfe of any
inclination that way.  He was both faithful and devoted.

Five years before, Rolfe's father, a man of considerable means who had
been interested in his financial undertakings, burnt his fingers badly
over a concession given by the Persian Government and became bankrupt.
A year later he died, a ruined man, leaving a son Charles and a daughter
Marion.  The latter had been compelled, he understood, to earn her
living in a London shop, and the former, who had only recently come down
from Oxford, he had engaged as his confidential secretary.

He had indeed done this because he had felt that Charlie's father had
made the ruinous speculation upon his advice, and it therefore behoved
him to do some little for the dead man's children.  Few men in the City
of London in these modern days are possessors of consciences, and those
who have are usually too busy with their own affairs to think of the
children of ruined friends.

Old Sam Statham was a hard man, it must be admitted.  He would drive a
bargain to the last fraction of percentage, and in repayment of loans he
was relentless sometimes.  Yet the acts of private charity that he did
were many, and he never sought to advertise them.

In Charles Rolfe he had not been disappointed.  Never once had he
disobeyed the orders he had given, and, what was more, never once had he
sought to penetrate beyond the door at the head of the staircase which
shut off the ground floor from the one above.

The first day that Rolfe came to attend to his correspondence he had
told him that he must never ascend those stairs, and that if he did he
would be discharged at a moment's notice.

This prohibition struck the young man as curious and lent additional
colour to the whispers of mystery concerning the fine fashionable house.
A thousand weird suggestions arose within his mind of what was
concealed upstairs, yet he was powerless to investigate, and, after a
few weeks, grew to regard his master's words as those of an eccentric
man whose enormous wealth had rendered a trifle extraordinary at times.

Old Levi was janitor of that green baize door.  Situated round the
corner, no one standing in the hall could see it.  Therefore its
existence was unsuspected.  But it was an iron door covered with green
baize, and always kept locked.  Levi kept the key, and to all Rolfe's
inquisitiveness he was dumb.

"The master allows nobody upstairs," was always his reply.  "I sleep
downstairs because I am not permitted to ascend."

What other servants might be there he knew not.  Levi was the only other
person he ever saw.  The curtains at the upper windows always looked
fresh and smart, and often as he went up Park Lane at night and glanced
up at them, he saw lights in them, showing that they must be inhabited.

At first all this puzzled him sorely.  He had told Marion about it, and
also Maud Petrovitch, both girls being intensely interested in the
mystery of the house and the character of the unseen occupants of its
upper floors.

But as Charlie declared that old Statham was eccentric in everything,
the mystery had gradually worn off and been forgotten.

The old man's face had sadly changed since early morning.  His
countenance now was that of a man in sheer despair.  He had looked up
the Continental Bradshaw and had scrawled half a dozen telegrams,
addressed to his secretary, now on his way to Servia, and these had been
taken to the post-office by Levi.

But it was all in vain.  The message to Belgrade could not possibly
reach Rolfe for another three days, and then, alas! it would be too
late.

Before then he would be finished with all earthly things, and the world
would denounce him as a coward.  Yet even that would be preferable to
standing and hearing his enemy's denunciation than facing exposure,
ridicule, and ruin.

"Levi was right when he suggested flight," he was murmuring to himself.
"Yet where can I go?  I'm too well-known.  My portrait is constantly in
the papers, and, save Greece, there is no country in which I could
obtain sanctuary.  Again, suppose I got safely to Greece, what about the
firm's credit?  It would be gone.  But if I die to-day, before this man
returns, they cannot accuse the dead, and the firm, being in a sound
financial position, cannot be attacked.  No, only by my own death can I
save the situation.  I must sacrifice myself.  There is no help for it!
None!  I must die!"

He gazed wildly around the big old-fashioned room as though his eyes
were searching for some means of escape.

But there was none.  His past had that day risen against him, and he was
self-condemned.

His chin sank again upon his chest, and his deep-set eyes were fixed
upon the soft, dark-green carpet.  The marble clock chimed the hour of
four, and recalled him to a sense of his surroundings.

He stretched himself, sighing deeply.  He was wondering, when that
shabby watcher, who held his life in his dirty talons, would return.

Thoughts of the past, tragic and bitter, arose within him, and a
muttered imprecation escaped his thin, white lips.  He was faced with a
problem that even the expenditure of his millions could not solve.  He
could purchase anything on earth, but he could not buy a few more years
of his own life.

He envied the man who was poor and struggling, the man with a cheerful
wife and loving children, the man who worked and earned and had no
far-reaching interests.  The wage-earner was to him the ideal life of a
man, for he obtained an income without the enormous responsibility
consequent upon being a "principal."  His vast wealth was but a
millstone about his neck.

That little leather book, with its brass lock, wherein was recorded his
financial position in a nutshell, was lying upon the table.  When he had
consulted it he had been appalled.  He was worth far more than he had
ever imagined.  And yet, by an irony of fate, the accumulation of that
wealth was now to cost him his life!

The long bar of sunlight had been moving slowly across the carpet, all
the afternoon.  Old Sam Statham has risen and crossed again to his
writing-table, searching among some papers in a drawer, and finding a
silver cigarette case, much tarnished by long neglect.  This he opened,
and within was displayed one tiny object.  It was not a cigarette, but a
tiny glass tube with a glass stopper, containing a number of very small
white pilules.

He was gazing thoughtfully upon these, without removing the tube from
its hiding-place, when, of a sudden, the door opened, and Levi, his pale
face flushed with excitement and half breathless, entered, exclaiming in
a low whisper:

"Rolfe is here!  Shall I show him in?"

"Rolfe!" gasped the millionaire in a voice of amazement.  "Are you
serious, Levi?"

"Serious?  Of course.  He has just called and asked if you can see him."

"Show him in instantly," was Statham's answer, as hope became at that
instant renewed.  "We may find a way out of this difficulty yet--with
his aid."

"We may," echoed Levi, closing the door for a moment behind him, so that
the young man might not overhear his words.  "We may; but recollect that
he is a man in love."

"Well?"

"And he loves that girl Maud Petrovitch.  Don't you understand--eh?"
asked Levi, with an evil flash in his eyes.

"Ah!  I see," replied his master, biting his under lip.  "I follow you,
Levi.  It is good that you warned me.  Leave the girl to me.  Show him
in."

"You know what I told you a few days ago--of his friendship with
Petrovitch," the old servant went on.  "Recollect that what I said was
the truth, and act upon the confidential information I gave you.  In
this matter you've a difficult task before you, but don't be
chicken-hearted and generous, as you are so very often.  You're in a
tight corner, and you must get out of it somehow, by hook or by crook."

"Trust me to look after myself," responded the millionaire, with a
sudden smile upon his pale, haggard face, for he saw that with his
secretary in London he might after all escape, and he had already closed
the tarnished cigarette case that contained those pilules by which he
had been contemplating ending his stormy existence.  "Tell him to come
in."

"But I beg of you to be firm.  You're not a fool," urged Levi, bending
earnestly towards him.  "What is a woman's honour as compared with your
future?  You must sacrifice her--or yourself.  There are many women in
the world, recollect--but there is only one Samuel Statham!"

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

SAMUEL STATHAM MAKES CONFESSION.

When Rolfe entered old Sam's presence he saw that something was amiss.

Was it possible that his employer knew his secret--the secret of his
visit to Cromwell Road on the previous night?  Perhaps he did.  The
suggestion crossed his mind, and he stood breathless for a few seconds.

"I thought you had left for Servia, Rolfe," exclaimed the old man in his
thin, weak voice.  He had seated himself at the writing-table prior to
his secretary's appearance, and had tried to assume a businesslike air.
But his face was unusually drawn and haggard.

"I missed the train last night," was the young man's reply.  "It is
useless to leave till to-night, as I can then catch the Orient Express
from Paris to-morrow morning.  Therefore I thought I'd call to see if
you have any further instructions."

The old man grunted.  His keen eyes were fixed upon the other's face.
The explanation was an unsatisfactory one.

Samuel Statham, as became a great financier, had a wonderful knack of
knowing all that passed.  He had his spies and secret agents in every
capital, and was always well informed of every financial move in
progress.  To him, early information often meant profits of many
thousands, and that information was indeed paid for generously.

In London, too, his spies were ever at work.  Queer, mysterious persons
of both sexes often called there in Park Lane, and were admitted to
private audience of the king of the financial world.  Rolfe knew them to
be his secret agents, and, further, that his employer's knowledge of his
own movements was often wider than he had ever dreamed.

No man in the whole City of London was more shrewd or more cunning than
old Sam Statham.  It was to the interest of Statham Brothers to be so.
Indeed, he had once remarked to his secretary that no secret, however
carefully kept, was safe from his agents, and that he could discover
without difficulty anything he wanted to know.

Had he discovered the truth regarding the strange disappearance of the
Doctor and his daughter?

"Why did you lose the train last night, Rolfe?" asked the great
financier.  "You did not go to Charing Cross," he added.

Rolfe held his breath again.  Yes, as he had feared, his departure had
been watched for.

"I--well, it was too late, and so I didn't attempt to catch the train."

"Why too late?" asked Statham, reprovingly.  "In a matter of business--
and especially of the magnitude of yours at this moment--one should
never be behindhand.  Your arrival in Belgrade twenty-four hours late
may mean a loss of about twenty thousand to the firm."

"I hope not, sir," Rolfe exclaimed, quickly.  "I trust that the business
will go through all right.  I--I did my best to catch the train!"

"Your best!  Why, you had half a day in which to pack and get to Charing
Cross!"

"I quite admit that, but I was prevented."

"By what?" asked Statham, fixing his eyes upon the young man before him.

"By a matter of private business."

"Yes--a woman!  You may as well admit it, Rolfe, for I know all about
it.  You can't deceive me, you know."

The other's face went ghastly white, much to Statham's surprise.  The
latter saw that he had unconsciously touched a point which had filled
his secretary with either shame or fear, and made a mental note of it.

"I don't deny it, sir," he faltered, much confused.  He had no idea that
his employer had any knowledge of Maud.

"Well--you're an idiot," he said, very plainly.  "You'll never get on in
the world if you're tied to a woman's shoe strings, depend upon it.
Girls are the ruin of young men like you.  When a man is free, he's his
own master, but as soon as he becomes the slave of a pretty face then
he's a lost soul both to himself and to those who employ him.  Take the
advice of an old man, Rolfe," he added, not unkindly.  "Cast off the
trammels, and be free to go hither and thither.  When I was your age, I
believed in what men call love.  Bah!  Live as long as I have, and watch
human nature as I have watched it, and you'll come to the same
conclusion as I have arrived at."

"And what is that?" asked Rolfe, for such conversation was altogether
unusual.

"That woman is man's ruin always--that the more beautiful the woman the
more complete the ruin," he answered, in the hard, unsympathetic way
which he sometimes did when he wished to emphasise a point.

Charlie Rolfe was silent.  He was familiar with old Sam's
eccentricities, one of which was that he must never be contradicted.
His amazing prosperity had induced an overbearing egotism.  It was
better to make no reply.

At heart the old man was beside himself with delight that his secretary
had not left London, but it was his policy never to betray pleasure at
anything.  He seldom bestowed a single word of praise upon anyone.  He
was silent when satisfied, and bitterly sarcastic when not pleased.

"I do not think, sir, that whatever you may have heard concerning the
lady in question is to her detriment," he could not refrain from
remarking.

"All that I have heard is very favourable, I admit.  Understand that I
say nothing against the lady.  What I object to is the principle of a
young man being in love.  Why court unhappiness?  You'll meet with
sufficient of it in the world, I can assure you.  Look at me!  Should I
be what I am if I had saddled myself with a woman and her worries of
society, frocks, children, petty jealousies, flirtations, and the
thousand and one cares and annoyances which make a man's life a burden
to him.

"No.  Take my advice, and let those fools who run after trouble go their
own way.  Sentimentalists may write screeds and poets sonnets, but
you'll find, my boy, that the only true friend you'll have in life is
your own pocket."

Charlie was not in the humour to be lectured, and more especially upon
his passionate devotion to Maud.  He was annoyed that Statham should
have found it out, and yet, knowing the wide-reaching sources of
information possessed by the old millionaire, it was scarcely to be
wondered at.

"Of course," he admitted, somewhat impatiently, "there is a good deal of
truth in your argument, even though it be a rather blunt one.  Yet are
not some men happy with the love of a good wife?"

"A few--alas! a very few," Statham replied.  "Think of our greatest men.
Nearly all of them have had skeletons in their cupboards because of
their early infatuations.  Of some, their domestic unhappiness is
well-known.  Others have, however, hidden it from the world, preferring
to suffer than to humiliate themselves or admit their foolishness," he
said, with a calm cynicism.  "To-day you think me heartless, without
sentiment, because you are inexperienced.  Twenty years hence recollect
my words, and you will be fully in accord with me, and probably regret
deeply not having followed my advice."

With his thin hand he turned over some papers idly, and then, after a
moment's pause, his manner changed, and he said, with a good-humoured
laugh:

"You won't listen to me, I know, Rolfe.  So what is the use of
expounding my theory?"

"It is very valuable," the young man declared, deferentially.  "I know
that you are antagonistic towards women.  All London is aware of that."

"And they think me eccentric--eh?" he laughed.  "Well, I do not want
them.  Society I have no use for.  It is all too shallow, too ephemeral,
and too much make-believe.  If I wished to go into Society to-morrow, it
would welcome me.  The door of every house in this neighbourhood would
be opened to me.  Why?  Because my money is the key by which I can
enter.

"The most exclusive set would be delighted to come here, eat my dinners,
listen to my music, and borrow my money.  But who among the whole of
that narrow, fast-living little world would care to know me as a poor
man?  I have known what it is to be poor, Rolfe," he went on; "poorer
than yourself.  The world knows nothing of my past--of the romance of my
life.  One day, when I am dead, it may perhaps know.  But until then I
preserve my secret."

He was leaning back in his padded chair, staring straight before him,
just as he had been an hour ago.

"Yes," he continued; "I recollect one cold January night, when I passed
along the pavement yonder," and jerked his finger in the direction of
the street.  "I was penniless, hungry, and chilled to the bone.  A man
in evening-dress was coming from this very house, and I begged from him
a few coppers, for I had tasted nothing that day, and further, my poor
mother was dying at home--dying of starvation.  The man refused, and
cursed me for daring to beg charity.  I turned upon him and cursed him
in return; I vowed that if ever I had money I would one day live in his
house.  He jeered at me and called me a maniac.

"But, strangely enough, my words were prophetic.  My fortune turned.  I
prospered.  I am to-day living in the house of the man who cursed me,
and that man himself is compelled to beg charity of me!  Ah, yes!" he
exclaimed suddenly, rising from his chair with a sigh.  "The world
little dreams of what my past has been.  Only one man knows--the man
whom you told me, Rolfe, a little time ago, is in England and alive."

"What--the man Adams?" exclaimed Rolfe, in surprise.

"Yes," replied his employer, in a hoarse, changed voice.  "He knows
everything."

"Things that would be detrimental to you?" asked his private secretary
slowly.

"He is unscrupulous, and would prove certain things that--well, I--I
admit to you in strictest confidence, Rolfe, that it would be impossible
for me to face."

Charlie stared at him in utter amazement.

"Then you have satisfied yourself that what I told you is correct?"

"I disbelieved you when you told me.  But I no longer doubt."

"Why?"

"Because I have seen him to-day--seen him with my own eyes.  He was
standing outside, there against the railings, watching the house."

"And did he see you?"

"He saw and recognised me."

Charlie gave vent to a low whistle.  He recognised the seriousness of
the situation.  As private secretary he was in old Statham's confidence
to a certain extent, but never before had he made such an admission of
fear as that he had just done.

"Where is he now?"

"I don't know.  Gone to prepare his coup for my ruin, most probably,"
was the old man's response, in a strained unnatural voice.  "But listen,
Rolfe.  I have told you to-day what I would tell no other man.  In you I
have reposed many confidences, because I know you well enough to be
confident that you will never betray them."

"You honour me, sir, by those words," the young man said.  "I endeavour
to serve you faithfully as it is my duty.  I am not forgetful of all
that you have done for my sister and myself."

"I know that you are grateful, Rolfe," he said, placing his bony hand
upon the young man's shoulder.  "Therefore I seek your aid in this very
delicate affair.  The man Adams has returned from the grave--how, I do
not know.  So utterly bewildering is it all that I was at first under
the belief that my eyes were deceiving me--that some man had been made
up to resemble him and to impose upon me.  Yet there is no imposture.
The man whom I know to be dead is here in London, and alive!"

"But did you actually see him dead?" asked Rolfe, innocently.

Old Statham started quickly at the question.

"Er--well--no.  I mean, I didn't exactly see him dead myself," he
faltered.

"Then how are you so very positive that he died?"

"Well, there was a funeral, a certificate, and insurance money was, I
believe, paid."

"That does not prove that he died," remarked Rolfe.  "I thought I
understood you to say distinctly when we spoke of it the other day that
you had actually stood beside the dead body of John Adams, and that you
had satisfied yourself that life was extinct."

"No! no!" cried the old man, uneasily, his face blanched.  "If I led you
to suppose that, I was wrong.  I meant to imply that, from information
furnished by others, I was under the belief that he had died."

Charlie Rolfe was silent.  Why had his employer altered his declaration
so as to suit the exigencies of the moment?

He raised his eyes to old Sam's countenance, and saw that it was the
face of a man upon whom the shadow of a crime had fallen.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

IN WHICH A WOMAN'S HONOUR IS AT STAKE.

"John Adams has seen you!" exclaimed Rolfe, slowly.  "Therefore the
situation is, I understand, one of extreme peril.  Is that so?"

"Exactly," responded the millionaire, in a thin, weak voice.  "But by
your aid I may yet extricate myself."

The younger man saw that the other was full of fear.  Never had he seen
his employer so nervous and utterly unstrung.  The mystery of it all
fascinated him.  Statham had unwittingly acknowledged having been
present at the presumed death of John Adams, and that in itself was a
very suspicious circumstance.

"Whatever assistance I can give I am quite ready to render it," he said,
little dreaming what dire result would attend that offer.

"Ah, yes!" cried the old man, thankfully, grasping his secretary's hand.
"I knew you would not refuse, Rolfe.  If you succeed I shall owe my
life to you; you understand--my life!"  And he looked straight into the
young man's face, adding, "And Samuel Statham never forgets to repay a
service rendered."

"I look for no repayment," he said.  "You have been so very good to my
sister and myself that I owe you a deep debt of gratitude."

"Ah! your sister.  Where is she now?"

"At Cunnington's, in Oxford Street."

"Oh, yes!  I forgot.  I wrote to Cunnington myself regarding her, didn't
I?  I hope she's comfortable.  If not, tell me.  I'm the largest
shareholder in that business."

"You are very kind," replied the young man.  "But she always says she is
most comfortable, and all the principals are very kind to her.  Of
course, it was hard for her at first when she commenced to earn her own
living.  The hours, the confinement, and the rigorous rules were irksome
to a girl of her character, always been used as she had to freedom and a
country life."

"Yes," replied the old man rather thoughtfully.  "I suppose so.  But if
she's getting on well, I am quite satisfied.  Should she have any
complaint to make, don't fail to let me know."

Rolfe thanked him.  The old fellow, notwithstanding his eccentricities,
was always a generous master.

There was a pause, during which the millionaire walked to the window,
peered out to see if the shabby watcher had returned, and then came back
again to his table.

"Rolfe," he commenced, as he seated himself, with surprising calmness,
"I have spoken more openly to you this afternoon than I have spoken to
anyone for many years.  First, you must remain in London.  Just ring
them up in the City, and tell them to send Sheldon here, and say that he
must leave for Belgrade to-night.  I will see him at seven o'clock."

The secretary took up the transmitter of the private telephone line to
the offices of Statham Brothers in Old Broad Street, and in a few
moments was delivering the principal's message to the manager.

"Sheldon will be here at seven for instructions," he said, as he
replaced the transmitter.

"Then sit down, Rolfe--and listen," the old man commanded, indicating a
chair at the side of the table.

The younger man obeyed, and the great financier commenced.

"You have promised your help, and also complete secrecy, have you not?"

"I shall say nothing," answered the other, at the same time eager to
hear some closed page in the old man's history.  "Rely upon my
discretion."

He was wondering whether the grey-faced old fellow was aware of the
startling events of the previous evening in Cromwell Road.  His spies
had told him of Maud.  They perhaps had discovered that amazing truth of
what had occurred in that house, now deserted and empty.

Was it possible that old Statham, being in possession of his secret, did
not now fear to repose confidence in him, for he knew that if he were
betrayed he could on his part make an exposure that must prove both
ruinous and fatal.  The crafty old financier was not the person to place
himself unreservedly in the hands of any man who could possibly turn his
enemy.  He had an ulterior motive, without a doubt.  But what it was
Charles Rolfe was unable to discover.

"The mouth of that man Adams must be closed," said the old man, in a
slow, deliberate voice, "and you alone are able to accomplish it.  Do
this for me, and I can afford to pay well," and he regarded the young
man with a meaning look.

Was it possible that he suggested foul play.  Rolfe wondered.  Was he
suggesting that he should lurk in some dark corner and take the life of
the shabby wayfarer, who had recently returned to England after a long
absence?

"It is not a question of payment," Rolfe replied.  "It is whether any
effort of mine can be successful."

"Yes; I know.  I admit, Rolfe, that I was a fool.  I ought to have
listened to you when you first told me of his re-appearance, and I ought
to have approached him and purchased his silence.  I thought myself
shrewd, and my cautiousness has been my undoing."

"From the little I know, I fear that the purchase of the fellow's
silence is now out of the question.  A week ago it could have been
effected, but now he has cast all thought of himself to the winds, and
his only object is revenge."

"Revenge upon myself," sighed the old man, his face growing a trifle
paler as he foresaw what a terrible vengeance was within the power of
that shabby stranger.  "Ah!  I know.  He will be relentless.  He has
every reason to be if what has been told him had been true.  A man
lied--the man who is dead.  Therefore the truth--the truth that would
save my honour and my life--can never be told," he added, with a
desperate look upon his countenance.

"Then you have been the victim of a liar?"  Rolfe said.  "Yes--of a man
who, jealous of my prosperity, endeavoured to ruin me by making a false
statement.  But his reward came quickly.  I retaliated with my financial
strength, and in a year he was ruined.  To recoup himself he committed
forgery, was arrested, and six months later died in prison--but without
confessing that what he had said concerning me was a foul invention.
John Adams believed it--and because of that, among other things, is my
bitterest enemy."

"But is there no way of proving the truth?" asked Rolfe, surprised at
this story.

"None.  The fellow put forward in support of his story proofs which he
had forged.  Adams naturally believed they were genuine."

"And where are those proofs now?"

"Probably in Adams' possession.  He has no doubt hoarded them for use at
the moment of his triumph."

Rolfe did not speak for several moments.

"A week ago those proofs might, I believe, have been purchased for a
round sum."

"Could they not be purchased now?  From the man's appearance he is
penniless."

"Not so poor as you think.  If what I've heard is true, he is in
possession of funds.  His shabbiness is only assumed.  Have you any
knowledge of a certain man named Lyle--a short man slightly deformed."

"Lyle!" gasped his employer.  "Do you mean Leonard Lyle?  What do you
know of him?"

"I saw him in the company of Adams.  It is he who supplies the latter
with money."

"Lyle!" cried Statham, his eyes glaring in amazement.  "Lyle here--in
London?"

"He was here a week ago.  You know him?"

"Know him--yes!" answered the old millionaire, hoarsely.  "Are you
certain that he has become Adams' friend?"

"I saw them together with my own eyes.  They were sitting in the Cafe
Royal, in Regent Street.  Adams was in evening-dress, and wore an
opera-hat.  They'd been to the Empire together."

"Why didn't you tell me all this before?" asked Statham, in a tone of
blank despair.  "I--I see now all the difficulties that have arisen.
The pair have united to wreak their vengeance upon me, and I am
powerless and unprotected."

"But who is this man Leonard Lyle?" inquired the secretary.

"A man without a conscience.  He was a mining engineer, and is now, I
suppose--a short, white-moustached man, with a slightly humped back and
a squeaky voice."

"The same."

"Why didn't you tell me this before?  If Lyle knows Adams, the position
is doubly dangerous," he exclaimed, in abject dismay.  "No," he added,
bitterly; "there can be no way out."

"I said nothing because you had refused to believe."

"You saw them together after you had told me of Adams' return, or
before?"

"After," he replied.  "Even though you refused to believe me, I
continued to remain watchful in your interests and those of the firm.  I
spent several evenings in watching their movements."

"Ah! you are loyal to me, I know, Rolfe.  You shall not regret this.
Hitherto I have not treated you well, but I will now try and atone for
the manner in which I misjudged you.  I ask your pardon."

"For what?" inquired Rolfe, in surprise.

"For believing ill of you," was all the old man vouchsafed.

"I tried to do my duty as your secretary," was all he said.

"Your duty.  You have done more.  You have watched my enemies even
though I sneered at your well-meant warning," he said.  "But if you have
watched, you perhaps know where the pair are in hiding."

"Lyle lives at the First Avenue Hotel, in Holborn.  Adams lives in a
small furnished flat in Addison Mansions, close to Addison Road railway
station."

"Lives there in preference to an hotel because he can go in and out
shabby and down-at-heel without attracting comment--eh?"

"I suppose so.  I had great difficulty in following him to his
hiding-place without arousing his suspicions."

"Does he really mean mischief?" asked the principal of Statham Brothers,
bending slightly towards his secretary.

"Yes; undoubtedly he does.  The pair are here with the intention of
bringing ruin upon you and upon the house of Statham," was Rolfe's quiet
reply.

"Then only you can save me, Rolfe," cried the old man, starting up
wildly.

"How?  Tell me, and I am ready to act upon your instructions," Rolfe
said.

The millionaire placed his hand upon the young man's shoulder and said:

"Repeat those words."

Rolfe did so.

"And you will not seek to inquire the reason of a request I may make to
you, even though it may sound an extraordinary and perhaps mysterious
one?"

"I will act as you wish, without desiring to know your motives."

The great financier stood looking straight into his secretary's eyes.
He was deeply in earnest, for his very life now depended upon the
other's assent.  How could he put the proposal to the man before him?

"Then I take that as a promise, Rolfe," he said at last.  "You will not
withdraw.  You will swear to assist me at all hazards--to save me from
these men."

"I swear."

"Good!  Then to-day--nay, at this very hour--you must make what no doubt
will be to you a great sacrifice."

"What do you mean?" asked Rolfe, quickly.

"I mean," the old man said, in a very slow distinct voice--"I mean that
you must first sacrifice the honour of the woman you love--Maud
Petrovitch."

"Maud Petrovitch!" he gasped, utterly mystified.

"Yes," he answered.  "You have promised to save me--you have sworn to
assist me, and the sacrifice is imperative!  It is her honour--or my
death!"

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

DESCRIBES THE MAN FROM NOWHERE.

Late that same night, in the small and rather well-furnished dining-room
of a flat close to Addison Road station, the beetle-browed man known to
some as John Adams and to others as Jean Adam was seated in a
comfortable armchair smoking a cigarette.

He was no longer the shabby, half-famished looking stranger who had been
watching outside Statham's house in Park Lane, but rather dandified in
his neat dinner jacket, glossy shirt-front, and black tie.  Adventurer
was written all over his face.  He was a man whose whole life history
had been a romance and who had knocked about in various odd and
out-of-the-way corners of the world.  A cosmopolitan to the backbone,
he, like his friend Leonard Lyle, whom he was at that moment expecting,
hated the trammels of civilised society, and their lives had mostly been
spent in places where human life was cheap and where justice was
unknown.

Alone in that small room where the dinner-cloth had been removed and a
decanter and glasses had been placed by his one elderly serving-woman,
who had now gone for the night, he was muttering to himself as he
smoked--murmuring incoherent words that sounded much like threats.

It was difficult to recognise in this well-groomed, gentlemanly-looking
man, with the diamond in his shirt-front and the sparkling ring upon his
finger, the low-looking tramp whose eyes had encountered those of the
man whose ruin he now sought to encompass.

In half a dozen capitals of the world he was known as Jean Adam, for he
spoke French perfectly, and passed as a French subject, a native of
Algiers; but in London, New York, and Montreal he was known as the
wandering and adventurous Englishman John Adams.

Whether he was really English was doubtful.  True, he spoke English
without the slightest trace of accent, yet sometimes in his gesture,
when unduly excited, there was unconsciously betrayed his foreign birth.

His French was as perfect as his English.  He spoke with an accent of
the South, and none ever dreamed that he could at the same time speak
the pure, unadulterated Cockney slang.

He had just glanced at his watch, and knit his brows when the electric
bell rang, and he rose to admit a short, triangular-faced, queer-looking
little old man, whose back was bent and whose body seemed too large for
his legs.  He, too, was in evening-dress, and carried his overcoat
across his arm.

"I began to fear, old chap, that you couldn't come," Adams exclaimed, as
he hung his friend's coat in the narrow hall.  "You didn't acknowledge
my wire."

"I couldn't until too late.  I was out," the other explained, in a tone
of apology.  "Well," he asked, with a sigh, as he stretched himself
before he seated himself in the proffered chair, "what has happened?"

"A lot, my dear fellow.  We shall come out on top yet."

"Be more explicit.  What do you mean?"

"What I say," was Adams' response.  "I've seen old Statham to-day."

"And he's seen you--eh?"

"Of course he has.  And he's scared out of his senses--thinks he's seen
a ghost, most likely," he laughed, in triumph.  "But he'll find I'm much
more than a ghost before he's much older, the canting old blackguard."

Lyle thought for a second.

"The sight of you has forearmed him!  It was rather injudicious just at
this moment, wasn't it?"

"Not at all.  I meant to give him a surprise.  If I'd have gone up to
the house, rung the bell, and asked to see him, I should have been
refused.  He sees absolutely nobody, for there's a mystery connected
with the house.  Nobody has ever been inside."

"What!" exclaimed the old hunchbacked mining engineer.  "That's
interesting!  Tell me more about it.  Is it like the haunted house in
Berkeley Square about which people used to talk so much years ago?"

"I don't think it's ever been alleged to be haunted," responded Adams.
"Yet there are several weird and amazing stories told of it, and of the
grim shadows which overhang it both night and day."

"What stories have you heard?" asked his companion, taking a cigarette
from the box, for he had suddenly become much interested.

"Well, it is said that the place is the most gorgeously furnished of any
house in that select quarter, and that it is full of art treasures, old
silver, miniatures, and antique furniture, for old Statham is a
well-known collector and is known to have purchased many very fine
specimens of antiques during the past few years.  They say that, having
furnished the place from kitchen to garret in the most costly manner
possible, he sought out the old love of his earlier days--a woman who
assisted him in the foundation of his fortune, and invited her to
inspect the house.  They went round it together, and after luncheon he
proposed marriage to her.  To his chagrin, she declined the honour of
becoming the wife of a millionaire."

"She was a bit of a fool, I should suppose," remarked the hunchback.

"They were fond enough of each other.  She was nearly twenty years his
junior, and though they had been separated for a good many years, he was
still devoted to her.  When she refused to marry him, there was a scene.
And at last she was compelled to admit the truth--she was the wife of
another!  A quarter of an hour later she left the house in tears, and
from that moment the beautiful mansion, with the exception of two or
three rooms, has been closed.  He will allow nobody to pass upstairs,
and the place remains the same as on that day when all his hopes of
happiness were shattered."

"But you said there were stories concerning the house," Lyle remarked,
between the whiffs of his cigarette.

"So there are.  Both yesterday and to-day I've been making inquiries and
been told many curious things.  A statement, for instance, made to me is
to the effect that one night about a month ago the chauffeur of the
great Lancashire cotton-spinner living a few doors away was seated on
the car at two o'clock in the morning, ready to take two of his master's
guests down to their home near Epsom, when he noticed Statham's windows
all brilliantly lit.

"From the drawing-room above came the sounds of waltz music--a piano
excellently played.  This struck the man as curious, well knowing the
local belief that the upper portion of the house was kept rigorously
closed.  Yet, from all appearances, the old millionaire was that night
entertaining guests, which was further proved when a quarter of an hour
later the door opened and old Levi, the man-servant, came forth.  As he
did so, a four-wheeled cab, which had been waiting opposite, a little
further up the road, drew across, and a few moments later both Levi and
Statham appeared, struggling with a long, narrow black box, which, with
the cabman's aid, was put on top of the vehicle.  The box much resembled
a coffin, and seemed unusually heavy.

"So hurried and excited were the men that they took no notice of the
motor car, and the cab next moment drove away, the man no doubt having
previously received his orders.  The music had ceased, and as soon as
the cab had departed the lights in the windows were extinguished, and
the weird home remained in darkness."

"Very curious.  Looks about as though there had been some foul play,
doesn't it?"  Lyle suggested.

"That's what the chauffeur suspects.  I've spoken with him myself, and
he tells me that the box was so like a coffin that the whole incident
held him fascinated," Adams said.  "And, of course, this story getting
about, has set other people on the watch.  Indeed, only last night a
very curious affair occurred.  It was witnessed by a man who earns his
living washing carriages in the mews close by, and who has for years
taken an interest in the mysterious home of Samuel Statham.

"He had been washing carriages till very late, and at about half-past
two in the morning was going up Park Lane towards Edgware Road, where he
lives, when his attention was drawn to the fact that as he passed
Statham's house the front door was slightly ajar.  Somebody was waiting
there for the expected arrival of a stranger, and, hearing the carriage
washer's footstep, had opened the door in readiness.  There was no light
in the hall, and the man's first suspicion was that of burglars about to
leave the place.

"Next instant, however, the reputation for mystery which the place had
earned, occurred to him, and he resolved to pass on and watch.  This he
did, retiring into a doorway a little farther down, and standing in the
shadow unobserved he waited.

"Half an hour passed, but nothing unusual occurred, until just after the
clock had struck three, a rather tall, thin man passed quietly along.
He was in evening-dress, and wore pumps, for his tread was noiseless.
The man describes him as an aristocratic-looking person, and evidently a
foreigner.  At Statham's door he suddenly halted, looked up and down
furtively to satisfy himself that he was not being watched, and then
slipped inside."

"And what then?" inquired Lyle, much interested.

"A very queer circumstance followed," went on the cosmopolitan.  "There
was, an hour and a half later, an exact repetition of the scene
witnessed by the chauffeur."

"What! the black trunk?"

"Yes.  A cab drove up near to the house, and, at signal from Levi, came
up to the kerb.  Then the long, heavy box was brought out by the servant
and his master, heaved up on to the cab, which drove away in the
direction of the Marble Arch."

"Infernally suspicious," remarked the hunchback, tossing his cigarette
end into the grate.  "Didn't the washer take note of the number of the
cab?"

"No.  That's the unfortunate part of it.  Apparently he didn't notice
the crawling four-wheeler until he saw Levi come forth and give the
signal."

"And the aristocratic-looking foreigner?  Could he recognise him again?"

"He says he could."

"That was last night--eh?"

"Yes."

"There may be some police inquiries regarding a missing foreigner,"
remarked Lyle, thoughtfully.  "If so, his information may be valuable.
How did you obtain it?"

"From his own lips."

"Then we had better wait, and watch to see if anybody is reported
missing.  Certainly that house is one of mystery."

"Sam Statham is unscrupulous.  I know him to my cost," Adams remarked.

"And so do I," Lyle declared.  "If what I suspect is true, then we shall
make an exposure that will startle and horrify the world."

"You mean regarding the foreigner of last night?"

"Yes.  I have a suspicion that I can establish the identity of the
foreigner in question--a man who has to-day been missing?"

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

REVEALS A CLEVER CONSPIRACY.

"And who was he?" asked Adams, quickly.

"For the present that is my own affair," the hunchback replied.
"Suffice it for you to know that we hold Samuel Statham in the hollow of
our hand."

"I don't know so much about that," remarked Adams, dubiously.  "I
thought so until this morning."

"And why, pray, has your opinion changed?"

"Because when he came a second time to the window and looked out at me,
there was a glance of defiance in his eye that I scarcely lie.  He's
wealthy and influential--we are not, remember."

"Knowledge is power.  We shall be the victors."

"You are too sanguine, my dear fellow," declared the other.  "We are
angling for big game, and to my idea the bait is not sufficiently
attractive."

"Statham is unscrupulous--so are we.  We can prove our story--prove it
up to the hilt.  Dare he face us?  That's the question."

"I think he dare," Adams replied.  "You don't know him as well as I do.
His whole future now depends upon his bluff, and he knows it.  We can
ruin both the house of Statham Brothers and its principal.  In the
circumstances, it is only natural that he should assume an air of
defiance."

"Which we must combat by firmness.  We are associated in this affair,
and my advice is not to show any sign of weakness."

"Exactly.  That's the reason I asked you here to-night, Lyle--to discuss
our next step."

The hunchback was silent and thoughtful for a few moments.  Then he
said:

"There is but one mode of procedure now, and that is to go to him and
tell him our intentions.  He'll be frightened, and the rest will be
easy."

"Sam Statham is not very easily frightened.  You wouldn't be, if you
were worth a couple of million pounds."  Adams remarked, with a dubious
shake of the head.

"I should be if upon me rested the burden of guilt."

"Then your suggestion is that I should go and tell him openly my
intentions?"

"Decidedly.  The more open you are, the greater will be the old man's
terror, and the easier our ultimate task."

"He'll refuse to see me."

"He goes down to the City sometimes.  Better call there and present a
false card.  He won't care to be faced in the vicinity of his managers
and clerks.  It will show him from the first that the great home of
Statham is tottering."

"And it shall fall!" declared Adams, with a triumphant chuckle.  "We
hold the trump cards, it is true.  The only matter to be decided is how
we shall play them."

"They must be played very carefully, if we are to win."

"Win?" echoed the other.  "Why, man, we can't possibly lose."

"Suppose he died?"

"He won't die, I'll take care of that," said Adams, with a fierce
expression upon his somewhat evil countenance.  "No; the old blackguard
shall live, and his life shall be rendered a hell of terror and remorse.
He made my life so bitter that a thousand times I've longed for death.
He taunted me with my misfortunes, ruined me and laughed in my face,
jeered at my unhappiness and flaunted his wealth before me when I was
penniless.  But through all these years I have kept silence, laughing
within myself because of his ignorance that I alone held his secret, and
that when I chose I could rise and crush him.

"He had no suspicion of my knowledge until one blazing day in a foreign
city I betrayed myself.  I was a fool, I know.  But very soon afterwards
I repaid the error by death.  I died and was buried, so that he then
believed himself safe, and has remained in self-satisfied security until
this morning, when his gaze met mine through the window.  I have risen
from the dead," he added, with a short, dry laugh; "risen to avenge
myself by his ruin."

"And his death," added the hunchback.

"Don't I tell you he shall not die?" cried Adams.  "What satisfaction
should I have were he to commit suicide?  No; I mean to watch his agony,
to terrify him and drive him to an existence constantly fearing exposure
and arrest.  He shall not enjoy a moment's peace of mind, but shall be
tortured by conscience and driven mad by terror.  I will repay his evil
actions towards me and mine a hundredfold."

"How can you prevent him escaping you by suicide?"

"He'll never do that, for he knows his suicide would mean the ruin of
Statham Brothers, and perhaps the ruin of hundreds of families.  The
canting old hypocrite would rather do anything nowadays than ruin the
poor investor."

"Yet look at his operations in earlier days!  Did he not lay the
foundation of the house by the exercise of cunning and unscrupulous
double-dealing?  Was it not mainly by his influence that a great war was
forced on, and did he not clear, it is declared, more than half a
million by sacrificing the lives of thousands?  And he actually has the
audacity to dole out sums to charities, and contributions to hospitals
and convalescent homes!"

"The world always looks at a man's present, my dear old chap, never at
his past," responded the hunchback.

"Unfortunately that is so, otherwise the truth would be remembered and
the name of Statham held up to scorn and universal disgust.  Yet," Adams
went on, "I grant you that he is not much worse than others in the same
category.  The smug frock coat and light waistcoat of the successful
City man so very often conceals a black and ungenerous heart."

"But if you really make this exposure as you threaten, it will arouse
the greatest sensation ever produced in England in modern years," Lyle
remarked, slowly lighting a fresh cigarette.

"I will make it--and more!" he declared, bringing his fist down heavily
upon the table.  "I have waited all these years for my revenge, and,
depend upon it, it will be humiliating and complete."

For a few moments neither man spoke.  At last Lyle said: "I have more
than once wondered whether you are not making a mistake in your
association with that young man Barclay."

"Max Barclay is a fool.  He doesn't dream the real game we are playing
with him."

"No.  If he did, he wouldn't have anything to do with us."

"I suppose he wouldn't.  But the whole thing appears to him such a
gilt-edged one that we've fascinated him--and he'll be devilish useful
to us in the near future."

"You've inquired about that girl, I suppose?"

"Yes.  She's in a drapery shop--at Cunnington's, in Oxford Street, and,
funnily enough, is sister of old Sam's secretary."

"His sister!  By Jove! we ought to know her--one of us.  She might be
able to find out something."

"No: we must keep away from her at present," Adams urged.  Then, in a
curious voice, he added: "We may find it necessary to become her enemy,
you know.  And if so, she ought not to be personally acquainted with
either of us.  Do you follow me?"

"You mean that we may find it necessary to secure Max Barclay's aid at
sacrifice of the girl--eh?"

His companion smiled meaningly.

"We must be careful how we use Barclay," Lyle said.  "The young man has
his eyes open."

"I know.  I'm well aware of that," Adams said, quickly.  "He will be of
the greatest assistance to us."

"If he has no suspicions."

"What suspicion can he have?" laughed the other.  "All that we've told
him he believes to be gospel truth.  Only the night before last we dined
together at Romano's, and after an hour at the Empire he took me to his
club to chat and smoke."

"He, of course, believes the story of the railway concession to be
genuine," Lyle suggested.  "Let me see, the concession is somewhere in
the Balkans, isn't it?"

"Yes; the railroad from Nisch, in Servia, across Northern Albania, to
San Giovanni di Medua, on the Adriatic.  A grand scheme that's been
talked of for years, and which the Sultan has always prevented by
refusing to allow the line to pass through Turkish territory.

"Our story is," added Adams, "that his Majesty has at last signed an
irade granting permission, and that within a month or so the whole
concession will be given over to an English group of whom I am the
representative.  I saw that the scheme appealed to him from the very
first.  He recognised that there was money in it, for such a line would
tap the whole trade of the Balkans, and by a junction near the Iron
Gates of the Danube, take the trade of Roumania, Hungary, and
South-Western Russia to the Adriatic instead of as at present into the
Black Sea.

"For the past week I've met Barclay nearly every day.  He suggested
that, as the railway would be a matter of millions, he should approach
old Sam Statham and ask him to lend us his support."

"Does he know Statham?"

"Slightly.  But I at once declined to allow him to speak about the
scheme."

"Why?"

"Because old Sam, with the aid of his spies and informants in diplomatic
circles, could in three days satisfy himself whether our story was true
or false.  It would have given the whole story away at once.  So I made
an excuse for continued secrecy."

"Quite right.  We must not court failure by allowing any inquiry to be
prematurely made," said Lyle.  "Make the project a secret one, and speak
of it with bated breath.  Hint at diplomatic difficulties between Turkey
and England, if the truth were known."

"That's just what I have done, and he's completely misled.  I explained
that Germany would try and bring pressure upon the Sultan to withdraw
the irade as soon as it were known that the railway had fallen into
British hands.  And he believed me implicitly!"

"He had no suspicion of whom you really are?"

"Certainly not.  He believes that I've never met Statham but that I have
the greatest admiration for his financial stability and his excellent
personal qualities," Adams replied: "He knows me as Jean Adam, of Paris,
as they do here in these flats--a man who has extensive business
relations in the Near East, and therefore well in with the pashas of the
Sublime Porte and the officials of the Yildiz.  I tell you, Lyle, the
young fellow believes in me."

"Because you're such a confoundedly clever actor, Adams.  You'd deceive
the cutest business man in London, with your wonderful documents, your
rosy prospectuses, and your tales of fortunes ready to be picked up if
only a few thousands are invested.  You've thoroughly fascinated young
Max Barclay, who, believing that you've obtained a very valuable
concession, is seized with a laudable desire to share the profits and to
obtain a lucrative occupation as a director of the company in question."

"Once he has fallen entirely in our power, the rest will be easy,"
answered the adventurer.  "I mean to have my revenge, and you receive
thirty thousand as your share."

"But what form is this revenge of yours to take?" the hunchback
inquired.  "You have never told me that."

"It is my own affair," answered Adams, leaning back against the
mantelshelf.

"Well, I think between friends there should not be any distrust," Lyle
remarked.  "You don't think I'd give you away, do you?  It's to my
interest to assist you and obtain the thirty thousand."

"And you will, if you stick to me," Adams answered.

"But I'd like to know your main object."

"You know that already."

"But only yesterday you told me that you don't want a farthing of old
Statham's money."

"Nor do I.  His money has a curse upon it--the money filched from the
pockets of widows and orphans, money that has been obtained by fraud and
misrepresentation," cried Adams.  "To-day he is respected and lauded on
account of his pious air and his philanthropy; yet yesterday he floated
rotten concerns and coolly placed hundreds of thousands in his pocket by
reason of the glowing promises that he never fulfilled.  No!" cried the
man, clenching his strong, hard fist; "I don't want a single penny of
his money.  You, Lyle, may have what you want of it--thirty thousand to
be the minimum."

"You talk as though you contemplated handling his fortune," the other
remarked, in some surprise.

"When I reveal to him my intentions, his banking account will be at my
disposal, depend upon it," Adams said.  "But I don't want any of his
bribes.  I shall refuse them.  I will have my revenge.  It shall be an
eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth.  He showed me no mercy--and I
will show him none--none.  But it is Max Barclay who will assist me
towards that end, and the girl at Cunnington's, Marion Rolfe, who must
be made the catspaw."

Lyle remained thoughtful, his eyes upon the carpet.

"Yes," he said, slowly, at last.  "I quite follow you and divine your
intentions.  But, remember she's a woman.  Is it just--is it human?"

"Human!" echoed the cosmopolitan, removing his cigarette as he shrugged
his shoulders with a nonchalant air.  "To me it matters nothing, so long
as I attain my object.  Surely you are not chicken-hearted enough to be
moved by a woman's tears."

"I don't understand you," his friend declared.

"No; I suppose you don't," he answered.  "And, to be frank with you,
Lyle, I don't intend at this moment that you shall.  My intention is my
own affair.  I merely foreshadow to you the importation into the affair
of a woman who will, through no fault of her own, be compelled to suffer
in order to allow me to achieve the object I have in view."

The hunchback turned slightly towards the curtained window.  He moved
quickly in order to conceal an expression upon his face, which, had it
been detected by his companion, the startling and amazing events
recorded in the following chapters would surely never have occurred.

But John Adams, standing there in ignorance, was chuckling over the
secret of the terrible triumph that was so very soon to be his--a
triumph to be secured by the sacrifice of an honest woman!

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

MORE ABOUT MARION.

The following Sunday afternoon was warm and bright, perfect for up-river
excursions, and, as was their usual habit, Max and Marion were spending
the day together.

Released from the eternal bustle of Oxford Street, the girl looked
forward with eager anticipation to each Saturday afternoon and Sunday--
the weekly period of rest and recreation.  To the assistant in shops
where the "living-in" system pertains, Sunday is the one bright interval
in an otherwise dull, dreary, and monotonous life, the day when he or
she gets away from the weariness of being businesslike, the smell of the
"goods," and the keen eye of the buyer or shop-walker, and when one is
one's own master for a few happy hours.

To those not apprenticed in their youth to shop-life who, being born in
a higher status, have been compelled to enter business as a means of
livelihood, the long hours are terribly irksome, especially in winter,
when artificial light is used nearly the whole day.  The work is
soul-killing in its monotony and the pay very meagre, therefore
customers need hardly be surprised when a tired assistant does not take
the trouble to exert herself unduly to satisfy her requirements.

In summer, Marion loved the river.  The air was fresh and healthful,
after the vitiated atmosphere of the costume department at Cunnington's.
Usually Max brought his little motor-boat from Biffen's, at Hammersmith
Bridge, where he kept it, up to Kew, and there they would embark in the
morning and run up to Hampton Court, Staines, or even Windsor, getting
their luncheon or tea at one or other of the old riverside inns, and
spending a lazy afternoon up some quiet, leafy backwater, where, though
so near the metropolis, the king-fishers skimmed the surface of the
stream and the water-lilies lay upon their broad, green leaves.

Those lazy hours spent together were always delightful, therefore, to
the devoted pair, a wet Sunday was indeed a calamity.  On the afternoon
in question they had met at Kew Bridge at four o'clock, and as she sat
upon the crimson cushions in the stern, they were ascending the broad
Thames, the motor running as evenly as a clock, and leaving a small wash
in their wake.  Marion could not meet her lover before, because she had
spent the morning with a poor girl who had been a fellow assistant at
Cunnington's, and was now in Guy's Hospital.  The girl was friendless
and in a dangerous condition, therefore Marion had given up her morning
and taken her some grapes.

There were not many people on the river, for pleasure-seekers usually
prefer the reaches above Richmond.  The craft they passed was mostly
sailing boats, belonging to the club Chiswick, and the inevitable launch
of the Thames Conservancy.

In a well-cut gown of plain white cotton, with lace and muslin at the
throat, a straw hat of mushroom shape, with a band of pale blue velvet,
and a white sunshade over her shoulder, she looked delightfully fresh
and cool.  He was in navy serge suit and a peaked cap, and in his mouth
a pipe.

Seated sideways in the boat, with the throbbing motor at his feet, he
thought he never had seen her looking so chic and indescribably
charming.  Those stiff black dresses, which custom forced her to wear in
business, did not suit her soft beauty.  But in her river dress she
looked delightfully dainty, and he tried to conjure up a vision of what
figure she would present in a well-cut evening gown.  The latter,
however, she did not possess.  The shop-assistant has but little need of
decollete, and, indeed, its very possession arouses comment among the
plainer, more prudish, and more elderly section of the girls in the
"house."

More than once Max had wanted to take her to the stalls of a theatre in
an evening gown, but she had always declared that she preferred wearing
a light blouse.  As a man generally is, he was a blunderer, and she
could not well explain how, by the purchase of evening clothes, she
would at once debase herself in the eyes of her fellow-assistants.  As
was well-known, her salary at Cunnington's certainly did not allow of
such luxuries as theatre gowns, and from the very first she had always
declined to accept Max's well-meant presents.

The only present of his that she had kept was the pretty ring now upon
her slim, white hand, a ring set with sapphires and diamonds and
inscribed within "From Max to Marion," with the date.

As she leaned back enjoying the fresh air, after the dust and stifling
heat of London, she was relating how pleased the poor invalid had been
at her visit, and he was listening to her description of her friend's
desperate condition.  A difficult operation had turned out badly, and
the surgeons held out very little hope.  Not a soul had been to see the
poor girl all the week, the nurse had said, for she had no relatives,
and all her friends were in business and unable to get out, except on
Sunday.

"I very much fear she won't live to see next Sunday," Marion was saying,
with a sigh, a cloud passing over her bright face.  "It is so very sad.
She's only twenty, and such a nice girl.  Her father was a naval
officer, but she was left penniless, and had to earn her own living."

"Like you yourself, dearest," he answered.  "Ah! how I wish I could take
you from that life of drudgery.  I can't bear to think of you being
compelled to slave as you do, and to wait upon those crotchety old cats,
as many of your customers are.  It's a shame that you should ever have
gone into Cunnington's."

"Mr Statham, Charlie's employer, holds the controlling interest in our
business.  It was through him that I got in there.  Without his
influence they would never have taken me, for I had no experience.  As a
matter of fact," she added, "I'm considered very lucky in obtaining a
situation at Cunnington's, and Mr Warner, our buyer, is extremely kind
to me."

"I know all that; but it's the long hours that most wear you out," he
said, "especially in this close, muggy weather."

"Oh!  I'm pretty strong," she declared lightly, her beautiful eyes fixed
upon him.  "At first I used to feel terribly tired about tea-time, but
nowadays I can stand it very much better."

"But you really must leave the place," Max declared.  "Charlie should so
arrange things that you could leave.  His salary from old Statham is
surely sufficient to enable him to do that!"

"Yes; but if he keeps me, how can he keep a wife as well?" asked Marion.
"Dear old Charlie is awfully good to me.  I never want for anything;
but he'll marry Maud before long, I expect, and then I shall--"

"Marry me, darling," he exclaimed, concluding her sentence.

She blushed slightly and smiled.

"Ah!" she said, in mock reproof.  "That may occur perhaps in the dim
future.  We'll first see how Charlie's marriage turns out--eh?"

"No, Marion," he cried.  "Come, that isn't fair!  You know how I love
you--and you surely recollect your promise to me, don't you?" he asked
seriously.

"Of course I do," she replied.  "You dear old boy, you know I'm only
joking."

He seemed instantly relieved at her words, and steered across to the
Middlesex banks as they approached Brentford Dock in order to get the
full advantage of the rising tide.

"Has Charlie seen Maud of late?" he asked, a few moments later.

"I don't know at all.  I suppose he's in the East.  I haven't seen him
since he came to the shop to say good-bye to me."

"I wonder if the Doctor and his daughter have returned to their own
country?" he suggested.

"What!  Have you heard nothing of them?"

"Nothing," he replied.  "I have endeavoured to discover where their
furniture was taken, or where they themselves went, but all has been in
vain.  Both they and their belongings have entirely disappeared."

The girl did not utter a word.  She was leaning back, with her fine eyes
fixed straight before her, reflecting deeply.

"It is all very extraordinary," she remarked at last.

"Yes.  I only wish, darling, you were at liberty to tell me the whole
truth regarding Maud, and what she has told you," he said, his gaze
fixed upon her pale, beautiful face.

"I cannot do that, Max," was her prompt answer, "so please do not ask
me.  I have already told you that in this matter my lips are sealed by a
solemn promise--a promise which I cannot break."

"I know!  Yet I somehow cannot help thinking that you could reveal to me
some fact which might expose the motive of this strange and
unaccountable disappearance," he said.  "Do you know, I cannot get rid
of the suspicion that the Doctor, and possibly Maud herself, have been
victims of foul play.  Remember that as a politician he had many enemies
in his own country.  A political career in the Balkans is not the
peaceful profession it is here at St Stephen's.  Take Bulgaria, for
instance, and recall the political assassinations of Stambuloff,
Petkoff, and a dozen others.  The same in Servia and in Roumania.  The
whole of the Balkans is permeated by an air of political conspiracy, for
there life is indeed cheap, more especially the life of the public man."

"What!  Then you really suspect that both Maud and her father have
actually been the victims of some political plot?" she asked, regarding
him with a strange expression.

"Well--how can I conjecture otherwise?  The Doctor would never have left
suddenly without sending word to me.  Have you written to Charlie
telling him of the sudden disappearance?"

"Yes.  I wrote the same day that you told me, and addressed the letter
to the Grand Hotel, at Belgrade."

"Then he has it by now?"

"Certainly.  I'm expecting a wire from him asking for further
particulars.  He should have got my letter the day before yesterday, but
up to the present I've received no acknowledgment."

Max did not tell her that her brother had not left London on the night
when he was believed to have done so, and that it was more than probable
he had never started from Charing Cross.  He kept his own counsel, at
the same time wondering what was the real reason why Marion so
steadfastly refused to tell him the nature of Maud's confession.  That
it had been of a startling nature she had already admitted, therefore he
could only suppose that it had some direct connection with the
astounding disappearance of both father and daughter.

On the other hand, however, he was suspicious of some ingenious plot,
because he felt convinced that the Doctor would never have effaced
himself without giving him confidential news of his whereabouts.

"Have you written to Maud?" he asked, after a fen; moments.

"No.  I don't know her address."

"And you have not seen her?"

"No."

"But you don't seem in the least alarmed about her disappearance?"

"Why should I be?  I rather expected it," she answered; and it suddenly
occurred to him whether, after all, she had been with Maud to the
concert at Queen's Hall on the night of the sudden removal.

A distinct suspicion seized him that she was concealing from him some
fact which she feared to reveal--some fact that concerned herself more
than Maud.  He could see, in her refusal to satisfy him as to the girl's
confession, an attempt to mislead and mystify him, and he was just a
trifle annoyed thereby.  He liked open and honest dealing, and began to
wonder whether this pretended promise of loyalty to her friend was not
being put forward to hide some secret that was her own!

The two girls had, during the past few months, been inseparable.  Had
Maud really made a startling confession, or was the girl seated before
him, with that strangely uneasy expression upon her beautiful
countenance, endeavouring to deceive him?

He tried to put such thoughts behind him as unworthy of his devotion to
her.  But, alas! he could not.

Mystery was there--mystery that he was determined to elucidate.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

ON DANGEROUS GROUND.

In the glorious sundown glinting across the river, and rendering it a
rippling flood of gold, Max and Marion were seated in the long upstairs
room of that old-fashioned riparian inn, the "London Apprentice," at
Isleworth, taking their tea at the open window.

Before them was the green ait, with the broad, tree-fringed river
beyond, a quiet, peaceful old-world scene that, amid the rapidly
changing metropolitan suburbs, remains the same to-day as it has been
for the past couple of centuries or so.

They always preferred that quiet, old-fashioned upstairs room--the
club-room, it was called--of the "London Apprentice," at Isleworth, to
the lawns and string bands of Richmond, the tea-gardens of Kew, or the
pleasures of Eel Pie Island.

That long, silent, old, panelled room with its big bow-window commanding
a wide reach of the river towards St Margaret's was well suited to
their idyllic love.  They knew that there they would at least be alone,
away from the Sunday crowd, and that after tea they could sit at the
window and enjoy the calm sundown.

The riverside at Isleworth does not change.  Even the electric trams
have passed close by it on their way to Hampton Court from Hammersmith
but they have not modernised it.  The old square-towered church, the row
of ancient balconied houses, covered with tea-roses and jasmine, and the
ancient waterman's hostelry, the "London Apprentice," are just the same
to-day as they have ever been in the memory of the oldest inhabitant;
and the little square in the centre of the riverside village is as
silent and untrodden as in the years when Charles II loved to go there
on his barge and dine in that very room at the inn, and when, later,
David Garrick and Pope sang its praises.

Max and his well-beloved had finished their tea, and, with her hat and
gloves off, she was lying back in a lounge chair in the deep bay window,
watching the steamer _Queen Elizabeth_, with its brass band and crowd of
excursionists, slowly returning to London.  Near her he was seated,
lazily smoking a cigarette, his eyes upon her in admiration, but still
wondering, as he always wondered.

The truth concerning Maud Petrovitch had not been told.

He was very fond of the Doctor.  Quiet, well-educated, polished, and
pleasant always, he was, though a foreigner, and a Servian to boot, the
very essence of a gentleman.  His dead wife had, no doubt, influenced
him towards English ways and English thought, while Maud herself--the
very replica of his lost wife, he always declared--now held her father
beneath her influence as a bright and essentially English girl.

The disappearance of the pair was an enigma which, try how he would, he
could not solve.  His efforts to find Rolfe had been unavailing, and
Marion herself had neither seen nor heard from him.  At Charlie's
chambers his man remained in complete ignorance.  His master had left
for Servia--that was all.

Max had been trying in vain to lead the conversation again up to the
matter over which his mind had become so much exercised; but, with her
woman's keen ingenuity, she each time combated his efforts, which, truth
to tell, only served to increase his suspicion that her intention was to
shield herself behind her friend.

Why this horrible misgiving had crept upon him he could not tell.  He
loved her with his whole heart and soul, and daily he deplored that,
while he lived in bachelor luxury in artistic chambers, and with every
whim satisfied, she was compelled to toil and drudge in a London drapery
store.  He wished with his whole heart that he could take her out of
that soul-killing business life, with all its petty jealousies and its
eternal make-believe towards customers, and put her in the companionship
of some elderly gentlewoman in rural peace.

But he knew her too well.  The mere offer she would regard as an insult.
A hundred times she had told him that, being compelled to work for her
living, she was proud of being able to do so.

Charlie, her brother, he could not understand.  He had just made a
remark to that effect, and she had asked--"Why?  He's awfully good to
me, you know.  Lots of times he sends me unexpectedly five-pound notes,
and they come in very useful to a girl like me, you know.  I dare say,"
she laughed, "you spend as much in a single evening when you go out with
friends to the theatre and supper at the Savoy as I earn in a month."

"That's just it," he said.  "I can't understand why Charlie, in his
position, secretary to one of the wealthiest men in England, allows you
to slave away in a shop."

"He does so because I refuse to leave," was her prompt answer.  "I don't
care to live on the charity of anybody while I have the capacity to
work.  My parents were both proud in this respect, and I take after
them, I suppose."

"That is all to your credit, dearest," he said; "but I am looking
forward to the future.  I love you, as you well know, and I can't bear
to think that you are bound to serve at Cunnington's from nine in the
morning till seven at night--waiting on a set of old hags who try to
choose dresses to make them appear young girls."

She laughed, her beautiful face turned towards him.  "Aren't you rather
hard on my sex, Max?" she asked.  "We all of us try to present ourselves
to advantage in order to attract and please."

"All except yourself, darling," he said courteously.  "You look just as
beautiful in your plain black business gown as you do now."

"That's really very sweet of you," she said, smiling.  Then a moment
later a serious look overspread her countenance, and she added: "Why
worry yourself over me, Max, dear.  I am very happy.  I have your love.
What more can I want?"

"Ah! my darling!" he cried, rising and bending till his lips touched
hers, "those words of yours fill me with contentment.  You are happy
because I love you!  And I am happy because I have secured your
affection!  You can never know how deeply I love you--or how completely
I am yours.  My only thought is of you, my well-beloved; of your present
life, and of your future.  I have friends--men of the world, who spend
their time at clubs, at sport, or at theatres--who scoff at love.  I
scoff with them sometimes, because there is but one love in all the
world for me--yours!"

"Yes," she said, slowly fixing her eyes upon his, and tenderly stroking
his hair.  "But sometimes--sometimes I am afraid, Max--I--"

"Afraid!" he echoed.  "Afraid of what?"

"That you cannot trust me."

He started.  Was it not the unconscious truth that she spoke?  He had
been doubting her all that afternoon.

"Cannot trust you!" he cried.  "What do you mean?  How very foolish!"

But she shook her head, and a slight sigh escaped her.  She seemed to
possess some vague intuition that he did not entirely accept her
statement regarding Maud.  Yet was it, after all, very surprising,
having in view the fact that she had admitted that Maud had made
confession.  It was the truth regarding that admission on the part of
the Doctor's daughter that he was hoping to elicit.

"Marion," he said presently, in a low, intense voice, "Marion, I love
you.  If I did not trust you, do you think my affection would be so
strong for you as it is?"

She paused for a moment before replying.

"That all depends," she said.  "You might suspect me of double-dealing,
and yet love me at the same time."

"But I do not doubt you, darling," he assured her, at the same time
placing his arm around her slim waist and kissing her upon the lips.  "I
love you; surely you believe that?"

"Yes, Max, I do," she murmured.  "I do--but I--"

"But what?" he asked, looking straight into her fine eyes and waiting
for her to continue.

She averted his gaze, and slowly but firmly disengaged herself from his
embrace, while he, on his part, wondered.

She was silent, her face pale, and in her eyes a look of sudden fear.

"Tell me, darling," he whispered.  "You have something to say to me--is
not that so?"

He loved her, he told himself, as truly as any man had ever loved a
woman.  It was only that one little suspicion that had arisen--the
suspicion that she had not been to Queen's Hall with his friend's
daughter.

He took her hand lightly in his and raised it courteously to his lips,
but she drew it away, crying, "No!  No, Max!  No."

"No?" he gasped, staring at her.  "What do you mean, Marion.  Tell me
what you mean."

"I--I mean that--that though we may love each other, perfect trust does
not exist between us."

"As far as I'm concerned it does," he declared, even though he knew that
his words were not exactly the truth.  "Why have you so suddenly changed
towards me, Marion?  You are my love.  I care for no one save yourself.
You surely know that--have I not told you so a hundred times?  Do you
still doubt me?"

"No, Max.  I do not doubt you.  It is you who doubt me!"

"I do not doubt," he repeated.  "I have merely made inquiry regarding
Maud, and the confession which you yourself told me she made to you.
Surely, in the circumstances, of her extraordinary disappearance,
together with her father, it is not strange that I should be unduly
interested in her?"

"No, not at all strange," she admitted.  "I am quite as surprised and
interested over Maud's disappearance as you are."

"Not quite so surprised."

"Because I view the whole affair in the light of what she told me."

"Did what she tell you in any way concern the Doctor?" he asked eagerly.

"Indirectly it did--not directly."

"Had you any suspicion that father and daughter intended to suddenly
disappear?"

"No; but, as I have before told you, I am not surprised."

"Then they are fugitives, I take it?" he remarked, in a changed tone.

"Certainly.  They were no doubt driven to act as they have done.  Unless
there--there has been a tragedy!"

"But the men who removed the furniture must be in some way connected
with the Doctor's secret," he remarked.  "There were several of them."

"I know.  You have already described to me all that you have discovered.
It is very remarkable and very ingenious."

"A moment ago you were about to tell me something, Marion," he said,
fixing his gaze upon hers; "what is it?"

"Oh!" she answered uneasily.  "Nothing--nothing, I assure you!"

"Now, don't prevaricate!" he exclaimed, raising his forefinger in mock
reproof.  "You wanted to explain something to me.  What was it?"

She tried to laugh, but it was only a very futile attempt, and it caused
increased suspicion to arise within his already overburdened mind.  Here
he was, endeavouring to elucidate the mystery of the disappearance of a
friend, yet she could not assist him in the least.  His position was
sufficiently tantalising, for he was convinced that by her secret
knowledge she held the key to the whole situation.

Usually, women are not so loyal to friends of their own sex as are men.
A woman will often "give away" another woman without the least
compunction, where a man will be staunch, even though the other may be
his enemy.  This is a fact well-known to all, yet the reason we may
leave aside as immaterial to this curious and complex narrative which I
am endeavouring to set down in intelligible form.

Marion, the woman he loved better than his own life, was assuring him
that she had nothing to tell, while he, at the same moment, was
convinced by her attitude that she was holding back from him some
important fact which it was her duty to explain.  She knew how intimate
was her lover's friendship with the missing man, and the love borne his
daughter by her own brother.  If foul play were suspected, was it not
her bounden duty to relate all she knew?

The alleged confession of Maud Petrovitch struck him now more than ever
as extraordinary.  Why did Marion not openly tell him of her fears or
misgivings?  Why did not she give him at least some idea of the nature
of her companion's admissions?  On the one hand, he admired her for her
loyalty to Maud; while, on the other, he was beside himself with chagrin
that she persistently held her secret.

In that half-hour during which they had sat together in the crimson
sundown, her manner seemed to have changed.  She had acknowledged her
love for him, yet in the same breath she had indicated a gulf between
them.  He saw in her demeanour a timidity that was quite unusual, and he
put it down to guiltiness of her secret.

"Marion," he said at last, taking her hand firmly in his again, and
speaking in earnest, "you said just now that you believed I loved you,
but--something.  But what?  Tell me.  What is it you wish to say?  Come,
do not deny the truth.  Remember what we are both to each other.  I have
no secrets from you--and you have none from me!"

She cast her eyes wildly about her, and then they rested upon his.  A
slight shudder ran through her as he still held her soft, little hand.

"I know--I know it is very wrong of me," she faltered, casting her eyes
to the floor, as though in shame.  "I have no right to hold anything
back from you, Max, because--because I love you--but--ah!--but you don't
understand--it is because I love you so much that I am silent--for fear
that you--"

And she buried her head upon his shoulder and burst into tears.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

IN WHICH A SCOT BECOMES ANXIOUS.

That same Sunday evening, at midnight, in a cane chair in the lounge of
the Central Station Hotel, in Glasgow, Charlie Rolfe sat idly smoking a
cigar.

Sunday in Glasgow is always a dismal day.  The weather had been grey and
depressing, but he had remained in the hotel, busy with correspondence.
He had arrived there on Saturday upon some urgent business connected
with that huge engineering concern, the Clyde and Motherwell Locomotive
Works, in which old Sam Statham held a controlling interest, but as the
manager was away till Monday, he had been compelled to wait until his
return.

The matter which he was about to decide involved the gain or loss of
some 25,000 pounds, and a good deal of latitude old Statham had allowed
him in his decision.  Indeed, it was Rolfe who practically ran the big
business.  He reported periodically to Statham, and the latter was
always satisfied.  During the last couple of years, by his clever
finance, Rolfe had made much larger profits with smaller expenditure,
even though his drastic reforms had very nearly caused a strike among
the four thousand hands employed.

He had spent a most miserable day--a grey day, full of bitter reflection
and of mourning over the might-have-beens.  The morning he had idled
away walking through Buchanan Street and the other main thoroughfares,
where all the shops were closed and where the general aspect was
inexpressibly dismal.  In the afternoon he had taken a cab and gone for
a long drive alone to while away the hours, and now, after dinner, he
was concluding one of the most melancholy days of all his life.

There were one or two other men in the lounge, keen-faced men of
commercial aspect, who were discussing, over their cigars, prices,
freights, and other such matters.  In the corner was a small party of
American men and women, stranded for the day while on their round tour
of Scotland--the West Highlands, the Trossachs, Loch Lomond, Stirling
Castle, the Highlands, and the rest--anxious for Monday to come, so as
to be on the move again.

Rolfe stretched his legs, and from his corner surveyed the scene through
the smoke from his cigar.  He tried to be interested in the people about
him, but it was impossible.  Ever and anon the words of old Sam Statham
rang in his ears.  If the house of Statham--which, after all, seemed to
be but a house of cards--was to be saved, it must be saved at the
sacrifice of Maud Petrovitch!

Why?  That question he had asked himself a thousand times that day.  The
only reply was that the charming half-foreign girl held old Statham's
secret.  But how could she?  As far as he knew, they had only met once,
years ago, when she was but a child.

And Statham, the elderly melancholy man who controlled so many
interests, whose every action was noted by the City, and whose firm was
believed to be as safe as the Bank of England, actually asked him to
sacrifice her honour.  What did he mean?  Did he suggest that he was to
wilfully compromise her in the eyes of the world?

"Ah, if he knew--if he only knew!" murmured Rolfe to himself, his face
growing pale and hard-set.  "Sam Statham believes himself clever, and so
he is!  Yet in this game I think I am his equal."  And he smoked on in
silence, his frowning countenance being an index to his troubled mind.

He was reviewing the whole of the curious situation.  In a few years he
had risen from a harum-scarum youth to be the private secretary,
confidant, and frequent adviser to one of the wealthiest men in England.
Times without number, old Sam, sitting in his padded writing-chair in
Park Lane, had commended him for his business acumen and foresight.
Once, by a simple suggestion, daring though it was, Statham had, in a
few hours, made ten thousand pounds, and, with many words of praise the
dry, old fellow took out his chequebook and drew a cheque as a little
present to his clever young secretary.  Charlie Rolfe was however,
unscrupulous, as a good many clever men of business are.  In the world
of commerce the dividing-line between unscrupulousness and what the City
knows as smartness is invisible.  So Marion's brother was dubbed a smart
man at Statham Brothers' and in those big, old-fashioned, and rather
gloomy offices he was envied as being "the governor's favourite."

Charlie intended to get on.  He saw other men make money in the City by
the exercise of shrewdness and commonsense, and he meant to do the same.
The business secrets of old Sam Statham were all known to him, and he
had more than once been half tempted to take into partnership some
financier who, armed with the information he could give, could make many
a brilliant coup, forestalling even old Statham himself.  Up to the
present, however, he had never found anybody he could implicitly trust.
Of sharks he knew dozens, clever, energetic men, he admitted, but there
was not one of these who would not give away their own mother when it
came to making a thousand profit.  So he was waiting--waiting until he
found the man who could "go in" with him and make a fortune.

Again, he was reflecting upon old Sam's appeal to him to save him.

"Suppose he knew," he murmured again.  "Suppose--" and his eyes were
fixed upon the painted ceiling of the lounge.

A moment later he sighed impatiently, saying, "Phew! how stifling it is
here!" and, rising, took up his hat and went down the stairs and out
into the broad street to cool his fevered brain.  He was haunted by a
recollection--the tragic recollection of that night when the Doctor and
his daughter had so mysteriously disappeared.

"I wonder," he said aloud, at last, "I wonder if Max ever dreams the
extraordinary truth?  Yet how can he?--what impressions can he have?  He
must be puzzled--terribly puzzled, but he can have no clue to what has
actually happened!" and then he was again silent, still walking
mechanically along the dark half-deserted business street.  "But suppose
the truth was really known!--suppose it were discovered?  What then?
Ah!" he gasped, staring straight before him, "what then?"

For a full hour he wandered the half-deserted streets of central
Glasgow, till he found himself down by the Clyde bank, and then
re-traced his steps to the hotel, hardly knowing whither he went, so
full was he of the terror which daily, nay, hourly, obsessed him.
Whether Max Barclay had actually discovered him or not meant to him his
whole future--nay his very life.

"I wonder if I could possibly get at the truth through Marion?" he
thought to himself.  "If he really suspects me he might possibly
question her with a view of discovering my actual movements on that
night.  Would it be safe to approach her?  Or would it be safer to
boldly face Max, and if he makes any remark, to deny it?"

Usually he was no coward.  He believed in facing the music when there
was any to face.  One of the greatest misfortunes of honest folks is
that they are cowards.

As he walked on he still muttered to himself--

"Hasn't Boileau said that all men are fools, and, spite of all their
pains, they differ from each other only more or less, I'm a fool--a
silly, cowardly ass, scenting danger where there is none.  What could
Max prove after all?  No!  When I return to London I'll go and face him.
The reason I didn't go to Servia is proved by Statham himself.  Of
excuses I'm never at a loss.  It's an awkward position, I admit, but I
must wriggle out of it, as I've wriggled before.  Statham's peril seems
to me even greater than my own, and, moreover, he asks me to do
something that is impossible.  He doesn't know--he never dreams the
truth; and, what's more, he must never know.  Otherwise, I--I must--"

And instinctively his hand passed over his hip-pocket, where reposed the
handy plated revolver which he always carried.

Presently he found himself again in front of the Central Station Hotel,
and, entering, spent an hour full of anxious reflection prior to turning
in.  If any had seen him in the silence of that hotel room they would
have at once declared him to be a man with a secret, as indeed he was.

Next morning he rose pale and haggard, surprised at himself when he
looked at the mirror; but when, at eleven o'clock, he took his seat in
the directors' office at the neat Clyde and Motherwell Locomotive Works
his face had undergone an entire change.  He was the calm, keen business
man who, as secretary and agent of the great Samuel Statham, had power
to deal with the huge financial interests involved.

The firm had a large contract for building express locomotives for the
Italian railways, lately taken over by the State, and the first business
was to interview the manager and sub-manager, together with the two
engineers sent from Italy, regarding some details of extra cost of
construction.

The work of the Clyde and Motherwell Company was always excellent.  They
turned out locomotives which could well bear comparison with any of the
North-Western, Great Northern, or Nord of France, both as to finish,
power, speed, and smoothness of running.  Indeed, to railways in every
part of the world, from Narvik, within the Arctic circle, to New
Zealand, Clyde and Motherwell engines were running with satisfaction,
thanks to the splendid designs of the chief engineer, Duncan Macgregor,
the white-bearded old Scot, who at that moment was seated with Statham's
representative.

The conference between the engineers of the Italian _ferrovia_ and the
managers was over, and old Macgregor, who had been engineer for years to
Cowan and Drummond, who owned the works before Statham had extended them
and turned them into the huge Clyde and Motherwell works, still
remained.

He was a broad-speaking Highlander, a native of Killin, on Loch Tay,
whose services had long ago been coveted by the London and North-Western
Railway Company, on account of his constant improvements in express
engines, but who always refused, even though offered a larger salary to
go across the border and forsake the firm to whom, forty years ago, he
had been apprenticed by his father, a small farmer.

As a Scotsman, he believed in Glasgow.  It was, in his opinion, the only
place where could be built locomotives that would stand the wear and
tear of a foreign or colonial line.  An engine that was cleaned and
looked after like a watch, as they were on the English or Scotch main
lines, was easily turned out, he was fond of saying; but when it became
a question of hauling power, combined with speed and strength to
withstand hard wear and neglect, it was a very different matter.

Managers and sub-managers, secretaries and accountants there might be,
gentlemen who wore black coats and went out to dine in evening clothes,
but the actual man at the head of affairs at those great works was
Duncan Macgregor--the short, thick-set man, in a shabby suit of grey
tweed, who sat there closeted with Rolfe.

"You wrote to London asking to see me, Macgregor," exclaimed the young
man.  "We're always pleased to hear any suggestions you've got to make,
I assure you," said Charlie, pleasantly.  "Have a cigarette?" and he
pushed the big box over to the man who sat on the other side of the
table.

"Thank ye, no, Mr Rolfe, sir.  I'm better wanting it," replied
Macgregor, in his broad tongue.  And then, with a preliminary cough, he
said "I--I want very badly to speak with Mr Statham."

"Whatever you say to me, Macgregor, I will tell him."

"I want to speak to him ma'sel'."

"I'm afraid that's impossible.  He sees nobody--except once a week in
the city, and then only for two hours."

"'E would'na see me--eh?" asked the man, whose designs had brought the
firm to the forefront in the trade.

"I fear it would be impossible.  You would go to London for nothing.
I'm his private secretary, you know; and anything that you tell me I
shall be pleased to convey to him."

"But, mon, I want to see 'im ma'sel'!"

"That can't be managed," declared Rolfe.  "This business is left to Mr
Smale and myself.  Mr Statham controls the financial position, but
details are left to me, in conjunction with Smale and Hamilton.  Is it
concerning the development of the business that you wish to see Mr
Statham?"

"No, it ain't.  It concerns Mr Statham himself, privately."

Rolfe pricked up his ears.

"Then it's a matter which you do not wish to discuss with me?" he said.
"Remember that Mr Statham has no business secrets from me.  All his
private correspondence passes through my hands."

"I know all that, Mr Rolfe," Macgregor answered, with impatience; "but
I must, an' I will, see Mr Statham!  I'm coming to London to-morrow to
see him."

"My dear sir," laughed Rolfe, "it's utterly useless!  Why, Mr Statham
has peers of the realm calling to see him, and he sends out word that
he's not at home."

"Eh!  'E's a big mon, I ken; but when 'e knows ma' bizniss e'll verra
soon see me," replied the bearded old fellow, in confidence.

"But is your business of such a very private character?" asked Rolfe.

"Aye, it is."

"About the projected strike--eh?  Well, I can tell you at once what his
attitude is towards the men, without you going up to London.  He told me
a few days ago to say that if there was any trouble, he'd close down the
works entirely for six months, or a year, if need be.  He won't stand
any nonsense."

"An' starve the poor bairns--eh?" mentioned the old engineer, who had
grown white in the service of the firm.  "Ay, when it was Cowan and
Drummond they wouldna' ha' done that!  I remember the strike in '82, an'
how they conciliated the men.  But it was na' aboot the strike at all I
was wanting to see Mr Statham.  It was aboot himself."

"Himself!  What does he concern you?  You've never met him.  He's never
been in Glasgow in his life."

"Whether I've met 'im or no is my own affair, Mr Rolfe," replied the
old fellow, sticking his hairy fist into his jacket pocket.  "I want to
see 'im now, an' at once.  I shall go to the London office an' wait till
'e comes."

"And when he comes he'll be far too busy to see you," the secretary
declared.  "So, my dear man, don't spend money unnecessarily in going up
to London, I beg of you."

By the old man's attitude Rolfe scented that something was amiss, and
set himself to discover what it was and report to his master.

"Is there any real dissatisfaction in the works?" he asked Macgregor,
after a brief pause.

"There was a wee bittie, but it's a' passed away."

"Then it is not concerning the works that you want to see Mr Statham?"

"Nay, mon, not at all."

"Nor about any new patent?"

"Nay."

Rolfe was filled with wonder.  The attitude of the old fellow was
sphinx-like and yet he seemed confident that the millionaire would see
him when he applied for an interview.  For a full half-hour they
chatted, but canny Macgregor told his questioner nothing--nothing more
than that he was about to go to London to have a talk with the great
financier upon some important matter which closely concerned him.

Therefore by the West Coast evening express, Rolfe left Glasgow for the
south, full of wonder as to what the white-bearded old fellow meant by
his covert insinuations and his proud confidence in the millionaire's
good offices.  There was something there which merited investigation--of
that he was convinced.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

THE OUTSIDER.

On the left-hand side of Old Broad Street, City, passing from the Royal
Exchange to Liverpool Street Station, stands a dark and dingy building,
with a row of four windows looking upon the street.  On a dull day, when
the green-shaded lamps are lit within, the passer-by catches glimpses of
rows of clerks, seated at desks poring over ledgers.  At the counter is
a continual coming and going of clerks and messengers, and notes and
gold are received in and paid out constantly until the clock strikes
four.  Then the big, old doors are closed, and upon them is seen a brass
plate, with the lettering almost worn off by continual polishing,
bearing the words "Statham Brothers."

Beyond the counter, through a small wicket, is the manager's room--
large, but gloomy, screened from the public view, and lit summer and
winter by artificial light.  In a corner is a safe for books, and at
either end big writing-tables.

In that sombre room "deals" representing thousands upon thousands were
often made, and through its door, alas! many a man who, finding himself
pressed, had gone to the firm for financial aid and been refused, had
walked out a bankrupt and ruined.

Beyond the manager's room was a narrow, dark passage, at the end of
which was a door marked "Private," and within that private room,
punctually at eleven o'clock, three mornings after Rolfe's conversation
with Macgregor, old Sam Statham took his seat in the shabby
writing-chair, from which the stuffing protruded.

About the great financier's private room there was nothing palatial.  It
was so dark that artificial light had to be used always.  The desk was
an old-fashioned mahogany one of the style of half a century ago, a
threadbare carpet, two or three old horsehair chairs, and upon the
green-painted wall a big date-calendar such as bankers usually use,
while beneath it was a card, printed with old Sam's motto:--

"TIME FLIES; DEATH URGES."

That same motto was over every clerk's desk, and, because of it, some
wag had dubbed the great financier, "Death-head Statham."

As he sat beneath the lamp at his desk, old Sam's appearance was almost
as presentable as that of his clerks.  Levi always smartened his master
up on the day he went into the City, compelling him to wear a frock
coat, a light waistcoat, a decent pair of trousers, and a proper cravat,
instead of the bit of greasy black ribbon which he habitually wore.

"And how much have we gained over the Pekin business, Ben?"  Mr Samuel
was asking of the man who, though slightly younger, was an almost exact
replica of himself, slightly thinner and taller.  Benjamin Statham,
Sam's brother, was the working manager of the concern, and one of the
smartest financiers in the whole City of London.  He was standing with
his back to the fireplace, with his hands thrust deep in his
trousers-pockets.

"Ah!" he laughed.  "When I first suggested it you wouldn't touch it.
Didn't owe for Chinese business, and all that!  You'd actually see the
French people go and take the plums right from beneath our noses--and--"

"Enough, Ben.  I own I was a little short-sighted in that matter.
Perhaps the details you sent me were not quite clear.  At any rate," he
said, "I was mistaken, for you say we've made a profit.  How much?"

"Twelve thousand; and not a cent of hazardous risk."

"How did we first hear of the business?"

"Through the secret channel in Paris."

"The woman?"

"Yes."

"Better send her something."

"How much?  She's rather hard-up, I hear."

"Women like her are always hard-up," growled old Sam.  "Leave it to me.
I'll get Rolfe to send her something to-morrow."

"I promised her a couple of hundred.  You mustn't send her less, or we
shall queer business for the future."

"I shall send her five hundred," responded the head of the firm.  "She's
a very useful woman--and pretty, too, Ben--by Jove! she is!  She called
on me in her automobile at the Elysee Palace about eighteen months ago,
and I was much struck by her.  She knows almost everybody in Paris, and
can get any information she wants from her numerous male admirers."

"She's well paid--gets a thousand a year from us," Ben remarked.

"And we sometimes make twenty out of the secret information she obtains
for us," laughed old Sam.  "Remember the Morocco business, and how she
gave us the complete French programme which she got from young Delorme,
at the Quai d'Orsay.  We were as much in the dark as the newspapers till
then, and if we hadn't have got at the French intentions, we should have
made a terribly heavy loss.  As it was, we left it to others--who went
under."

"She got an extra five hundred as a present for that," Ben pointed out.

"And it was worth it."

"Delorme doesn't know who gave the game away to us.  If he did, it would
be the worse for Her Daintiness."

"No doubt it would.  But she's a fly bird, and as only you and I and
Rolfe know the truth, she's pretty confident that she'll never be given
away."

"She's in town--at Claridge's--just now, so you need not write her to
Paris.  She asked me to call the night before last, and I went," said
Ben.  "She wanted to get further instructions regarding a matter about
which I wrote her.  I dined with her."

Sam grunted as he turned slightly in his chair.

"Rather undesirable company--eh--Ben?" he exclaimed, with some surprise.
"Suppose you were seen by anyone who knows her?  And recollect that all
Paris knows her.  It is scarcely compatible with our standing in the
City for you to be seen in her company."

"My dear Sam, I took very good care not to be seen in her company.  I'm
not quite a fool.  I accepted her invitation with a distinct purpose.  I
wanted to question her about one of her friends--a man who may in future
prove of considerable use to us.  He's, as usual, in love with her, and
she can twist him inside out."

"Ah! any man's a fool who allows himself to fall under the fascination
of a woman's smiles," remarked the dry-as-dust old millionaire.  "We've
been wise, Ben, to remain bachelors.  It's the unmarried who taste the
good things of this world."

Benjamin sighed, but said nothing.  He, like Sam himself, had had his
love-romance years ago, and it still lingered within him, lingered as it
does within the heart of every man who has loved a woman that has turned
out false and broken her pledge of affection.  Ben Statham's was a sorry
story.  Before his eyes, even now that thirty years had gone, there
often arose the vision of a sweet, pale-faced, slim figure in white
muslin, girdled with blue; of green meadows, where the cattle stood
knee-deep in the rich grass, and of a cool Scotch glen where the trees
overhung the rippling burn and where the trout darted in the pools.

But it had all ended, as many another love-romance has, alas! ended, in
the woman forsaking the man who loved her, and in marrying another for
his money.

Three years later her husband--the man whom she had wedded because of
his position--was in the bankruptcy court, and six months afterwards he
had followed her to her grave.  But the sweet recollection of her still
remained with Ben, and beneath that hard and wizened countenance beat a
heart foil of tender memories of a day long since dead.

His brother Samuel's romance was even more tragic.  Nobody knew the
story save himself, and it had never passed his lips.  The society
gossips who so often wrote their tittle-tattle about him never dreamed
the strange story of the life of the great financier, nor the
extraordinary romance that underlay his marvellous success.  What a
sensation would be produced if they ever learnt the truth!  In those
days long ago both of them had been poor, and had suffered in
consequence.  Now that they were both wealthy, the bitterness of the
past still remained with them.

They were discussing another matter, concerning a project for an
electric tramway in a Spanish city, the concession for which had been
brought to them.  They both agreed that the thing would not pay,
therefore it was dismissed.

During their discussion Rolfe entered, and, taking his seat at the small
table near his master, busied himself with some letters.

Suddenly Benjamin Statham exclaimed--

"Oh! by the way, there's a queer-looking Scot from the Clyde and
Motherwell works who's been hanging about for a couple of days to see
you, Sam.  Says he must see you at all coats."

"I don't want to see anybody from Glasgow," snapped Statham.  "Tell him
I'm not here, whoever he is."

"He's the old engineer, Macgregor," Rolfe said.  "He mentioned to me
when I was in Glasgow the other day that he particularly wished to see
you, and that he was coming up on purpose.  I told him it was a
wild-goose chase."

"Engineer?  What does he do?  Mind the engine--one of the men who
threaten to go on strike, I suppose," remarked old Sam.

"No," laughed Rolfe.  "He's a little more than engineer.  It is he who
has designed nearly every locomotive we've turned out."

"Oh! valuable man--eh?  Then raise his salary, Rolfe, and send him back
to Glasgow to make a few more engines."

"He's waiting outside at the counter now, and won't go away," exclaimed
the secretary.

"Then go to him and say he shall have fifty pounds more a year.  I can't
be bothered to see the fellow."

Rolfe rose and went to the outer office, where Macgregor stood
patiently.  He had waited there for best part of two days and, with a
Scot's tenacity, refused to be put off by any of the clerks.  He wanted
to see Mr Samuel Statham, "an' I mean to see 'im, mon," he told
everybody, his grey beard bristling fiercely as he spoke.

He was evidently a man with a grievance.  Such men came to Old Broad
Street sometimes, and on rare occasions Mr Benjamin saw them.  There
were hard cases of men ignorant of the ways of business as the City
to-day knows it, having been deliberately swindled out of their rights
by sharks, concessions filched from their rightful owners, and patents
artfully stolen and registered.  But old Duncan Macgregor, with his
white beard, was of a different type--the type of honest, hard-working
plodder, out of whose brains the great Clyde and Motherwell works were
practically coining money daily.

As Rolfe advanced to him he said:--

"I'm sorry, Macgregor, that Mr Statham is quite unable to see you
to-day.  He's engaged three deep.  I've told him you wished to see him,
and he says that he much appreciates the great services you've rendered
to the firm, and that you are to receive a rise of salary of fifty
pounds a year, beginning the first of last January."

"What!" cried the old man.  "What--'e offers me another fifty pounds!
'E's guid an' generous; but I have na' come here for that.  I've come to
London to see him--ye hear!--to see him--d'ye hear, Mr Rolfe, an' I
must."

"But, my dear sir, you can't!"

"Tell him I don't want his fifty pound," cried the old man so derisively
that the clerks looked up from their ledgers.  "I must speak to him, an'
him alone."

"Impossible," exclaimed Rolfe, impatiently.

"Why impossible?" asked the old fellow.  "When Mr Statham knows the
business I've come upon he won't thank ye for keepin' us apart.  D'ye
ken that, mon?" and his beard wagged as he spoke.

"I know nothing, Macgregor, because you've told me nothing," was the
other's reply.

"Well, I tell ye I mean to see him, an' that's sufficient for Duncan
Macgregor."

"Mr Duncan Macgregor will, if he continues to create a scene here, find
himself discharged from the employ of the Clyde and Motherwell works,"
remarked Rolfe, drily.

"An' Duncan Macgregor can go to the North-Western to-morrow at a bigger
rise than the fifty pounds a year.  D'ye ken that?" replied the man from
Glasgow.

"Then you refuse to accept Mr Statham's offer to you?"

"Of course, mon.  Ye don't think that I come to London a cringin' for
more pay, do ye?  If I wanted it I could ha' got it from another company
years ago," replied the independent old fellow.  "No, I must see Mr
Statham.  Go back an' tell him so.  I'm here to see him on a very
important matter," and, dropping his voice, he added, "a matter which
closely concerns himself."

"Then tell me its nature."

"It's private, sir.  Until Mr Statham gives me leave to tell you, I
can't."

"But he wants to know the nature of the business," answered the
secretary, again struck by the old fellow's pertinacity.  It was not
every man who would decline a rise of a pound a week in his salary.
Rolfe was puzzled, but he knew old Sam well enough to be aware that even
if a duke called he would refuse to see him.  He only came to the City
once a week to discuss matters with his brother Ben, and saw no
outsider.

"I can't tell ye why I want to see Mr Statham; that's only his business
and mine," replied the bearded Scot.  The clerks were now smiling at
Rolfe's vain attempts to get rid of him.

"Will you write it?  Here--write on this slip of paper," the secretary
suggested.

The old fellow hesitated.

"Yes--if you'll let me seal it up in an envelope."

Rolfe at once assented, and, with considerable care, the old fellow
wrote some pencilled lines, folded the paper, sealed it in the envelope,
and wrote the superscription.

A few moments later, when Rolfe handed it to the old millionaire, who
was still at his table chatting with his brother, he asked, in the
snappish way habitual to him:--"Who's this from--eh?  Why am I
bothered?"

"From the man Macgregor, from Glasgow.  He won't go away."

"Then discharge the brute," he replied, and with the note in his hand he
finished a remark he had addressed to his brother.

At last, mechanically, he opened it, and his eyes fell upon the
scribbled words.

His jaw dropped.  The colour left his cheeks, and, sitting back, he
glared straight at Rolfe as though he had seen an apparition.

For a few moments he seemed too confused to speak.  Then, when he
recovered himself, he said, half apologetically:--"Ben, I must see this
man alone--a--a private matter.  I--I had no idea--I--"

"Of course, Sam," exclaimed his brother, leaving the room.  "Let me know
when he's gone."

"Rolfe, show him in," the millionaire ordered.  The instant his
secretary had gone he sprang to his feet, examined his face in the small
mirror over the mantelshelf for a moment, and then stood bracing himself
up for the interview.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

THE MAN WHO LOVED.

A few nights later Max Barclay was seated in the stalls of the Empire
Theatre with Marion.

They never went to the legitimate theatre because she had no
evening-dress.  Even to be seen in one would have caused comment among
her fellow employes at Cunnington's.  The girls were never very
charitable to each other, for in the pernicious system of "living-in"
there is no privacy or home life, no sense of responsibility or of
freedom.

The average London shop girl has but little leisure and little rest.
Chronically over-tired, she cares little to go out of an evening after
the long shop hours, and looks forward to Sunday as the day when she can
read in bed till noon if she chooses, snooze again in the afternoon, and
perhaps go to a cafe in the evening.  It was so with Marion.  The sales
were on, and there were "spiffs," or premiums, placed by Mr Warner upon
some out-of-date goods which it was every girl's object to sell and thus
earn the commission.  So she was working very hard, and already held
quite a respectable number of tickets representing "spiffs."

In a dark blue skirt, white silk blouse and black hat, she looked
extremely pretty and modest as she sat beside her lover in the second
row of the stalls, watching the ballet with its tuneful music, clever
groupings, and phantasmagoria of colour.  She glanced at the watch upon
her wrist, and saw that it was nearly ten o'clock.  In half an hour she
would have to be "in."

The bondage of his well-beloved galled Max, yet he could say nothing.
Her life was the same as that of a hundred thousand other girls in
London.  Indeed, was she not far better off that those poor girls who
came up from their country homes to serve a year or two's drudgery
without payment in order to learn the art and mystery of "serving a
customer"--girls who were orphans and without funds, and who very soon
found the actual necessity of having a little pocket-money for dress and
for something with which to relish the stale bread and butter doled out
to them.

The public have never yet adequately realised the hardships and tyranny
of shop-life, where man is but a mere machine, liable to get the "sack"
at a moment's notice, and where woman is but an ill-fed, overworked
drudge, liable at any moment to be thrown out penniless upon the great
world of London.

Some day ere long the revelation will come.  There are certain big
houses in London with pious shareholders and go-to-meeting directors
which will earn the opprobrium of the whole British public when the
naked truth regarding their female assistants is exposed.  In "the
trade" it is known, and one day there will arise a man bolder and more
fearless than the rest, who will speak the truth, and, moreover, prove
it.

If in the meantime you want to know the truth concerning shop-life, ask
the director of any of the numerous rescue societies in London.  What
you will be told will, I assure you, open your eyes.

The couple of hours Max had spent with Marion proved delightful ones, as
they always were.  Promenading in the lounge above were many
men-about-town whom he knew, and who, seeing him with the modest-looking
girl, smiled knowingly.  They never guessed the truth--that he loved her
and intended to make her his wife.

"Charlie is back from Glasgow," she was saying.  "He came to the shop
this afternoon to ask if I had seen you, and to explain how the other
night he, by a most fortunate circumstance, missed the Continental
train, for next morning Mr Statham wanted him to do some very important
business, and was delighted to find that he had not left.  Another man
has gone out to the East."

"If he wanted to know my movements he might have called at Dover
Street," Max remarked thoughtfully, the recollection of that night in
Cromwell Road arising within him.

"He seemed very busy, and said he had not a moment to spare.  He was
probably going north again.  They have, he told me, some big order from
Italy at the locomotive works."

"I thought Statham couldn't do without him," remarked Max.  "Nowadays,
however, he seems always travelling."

"He's awfully kind to me--gave me a five-pound note this afternoon."

"What did he say about me?" inquired Max.

"Oh! nothing very much.  He asked me, among other things, whether I knew
where you were on the night of the disappearance of the Doctor and his
daughter."

Max started.

"And what did you reply?"

"That I hadn't the slightest idea.  I never saw you that evening," was
the girl's frank response.

Her lover nodded thoughtfully.  It was now plain that Charlie suspected
that he had detected him leaving the house and was endeavouring to
either confirm his suspicion or dismiss it.

"Did he tell you to-day where he was going?"

"Back to Glasgow, I believe--but only for two days."

Max was seated at the end of the second row of the stalls, and beyond
Marion were three or four vacant seats.  At this juncture their
conversation was interrupted by a man in well-cut evening-dress, his
crush hat beneath his arms, advancing down the gangway and putting his
hand out heartily to Max, exclaiming--

"My dear Barclay!  Excuse me, but I want very much a few words with you
to-night, on a matter of great importance."  Then, glancing at Marion,
he added: "I trust that Mademoiselle will forgive this intrusion?"

The girl glanced at the new-comer, while her lover, taking the man's
hand, said--

"My dear Adam, I, too, wanted to see you, and intended to call
to-morrow.  You are not intruding in the least.  Here's a seat.  Allow
me to introduce Miss Rolfe--Mr Jean Adam."

The man of double personality bowed again, and passing Marion and her
lover, seated himself at her side, commencing to chat merrily, and
explaining that he had recognised Max from the circle above.  He had, it
appeared, been to Dover Street an hour before, and Max's man had told
him where his master was spending the evening.

Marion rather liked him.  Max had already told her of this Frenchman who
spoke English so well, and with whom he was doing business.  In his
speech he had the air and polish of the true cosmopolitan, and he also
possessed a keen sense of humour.

Presently Marion, glancing again at her watch, declared that she must
leave.  Max scarcely ever took her home.  He always put her into a cab,
and she descended at the corner of the street off Oxford Street, where
Cunnington's assistants had their big barrack-like dwelling, and walked
home alone.  It was her wish to do so, and he respected it.

Therefore all three rose, and Max went outside with her and put her into
a cab, promising to meet her on the following evening.  In the bustle of
Leicester Square at that hour, he could not kiss her; but as their hands
grasped, their eyes met in a glance which both knew was one of trust and
mutual affection.

And so they parted, Max returning to the lounge where the Frenchman,
Jean Adam, _alias_ the Englishman John Adams, awaited him.

They had a drink at the American bar, and then promenaded up and down in
the gay crowd that nightly assembles in that popular resort.  Max nodded
to one or two men he knew--clubmen and _habitues_ like himself, and
then, after the show was over, they took a cab down to the Savoy to
supper.

The gay restaurant, with its crimson carpet and white decorations was
crowded.  To Gustave, who allotted the tables, Max was well-known,
therefore a table for two in the left-hand corner of the big room--the
table he usually occupied--was instantly secured, and the couple who had
engaged were moved elsewhere.  In the season Max had supper there on an
average three nights a week, for at the Savoy one meets all one's
friends, and there is always music, life, and brightness after the
theatre, until the licensing regulations cut off the merriment so
abruptly.

That night was no exception.  The place was filled to overflowing with
the smart world, together with many American visitors, the latest
musical-comedy actresses and their male appendages, country cousins, men
whose names were household words, and women whose pasts had appeared in
black and white in the newspapers.  A strange crowd, surely.  Half the
people were known to each other by sight, if not personally, and the
other half were mere onlookers, filled with curiosity when Lord This or
Dolly That were pointed out to them.

Max and Jean Adam were seated with a bottle of Krug between them when
the former exclaimed--

"Well, how does our business go?"

"That's the reason I wanted to see you to-night," was his companion's
reply with just a slight French accent.  "I had some news from
Constantinople to-day--confidential news from the Palace," he added in
an undertone, bending across the table.  "I want you to read it and give
your opinion."  And producing an envelope and letter on thin paper
closely written in French, he handed it across to Barclay, as he added:
"Now what is written there is the bed-rock fact, I know from independent
inquiries I have made in an entirely different quarter."

Between mouthfuls of the perfectly-cooked _filet de sole_ placed before
him Max read the letter carefully.  It was signed "your devoted friend
Osman," and was evidently from a Turkish official at the Yildiz Kiosk.
Briefly, it was to the effect that the _irade_ of the Sultan for the
construction of the railway from Nisch in Servia to San Giovanni di
Medua, on the Adriatic, was in the hands of Muhil Pasha, one of his
Majesty's most intimate officials, and had been granted to him for
services rendered in the Asiatic provinces.

Muhil had offered to part with it for twelve thousand pounds sterling,
and that the agent of a French Company had arrived in Constantinople in
order to treat with him.  Muhil, however, had no love for the French,
since he was Ottoman Ambassador in Paris a few years ago, and got into
disgrace there, hence he would be much more ready to sell to an English
syndicate.

The letter of Osman concluded by urging Adam to send instructions at
once to a certain box at the British post-office in Constantinople, and
to if possible secure the valuable document which would enable a line of
railway to be built which would pay its shareholders enormously.

"Well," exclaimed Max, as he replaced the letter in its envelope, noting
the surcharge in black--"1 piastre"--upon the blue English stamp.  "What
shall you do?"

"Do?  Why we must get the twelve thousand, of course.  It's a mere
bagatelle compared with the magnitude of the business.  I've got some
reports in my overcoat pocket which I'll show you after supper.  We must
get the thing through, my dear Barclay.  There's a big fortune in it for
both of us--a huge fortune.  Why, for the past ten years every diplomat
at the Sublime Porte has been at work to get it through, but has been
unsuccessful.  The Sultan has always refused to let the line run through
Turkish territory, fearing lest it should be used for military transport
in the event of another war.  His Majesty is not particularly partial to
Austria, Servia, or Bulgaria, you know," he laughed.

"And hardly surprising, in view of past events, eh?" exclaimed Max,
entirely ignorant of the real character of this man, who seemed a smart
man of business combined with a genial companion.  Adam was a
past-master in the art of fraud.  He did not press the point, but merely
went on with his supper, swallowed a glass of champagne, and turned the
conversation by admiring the graceful carriage of the head of a girl
sitting near with a wreath of forget-me-nots across her fluffy fair
hair.

"Yes," replied Max.  "The poise of her head is full of grace, but--well,
her face is like the carved handle of an umbrella!"  Whereat his
companion laughed heartily.  Barclay was full of quaint expressions, and
of a quiet but biting sarcasm.  Some of his _bons mots_ had been
repeated from month to mouth in the clubs until they became almost
popular sayings.  He was now in love entirely and devotedly with Marion,
and no other woman of the thousand who passed before his eyes and smiled
into his face had the least attraction for him.

A moment later a pretty girl in pink, the Honourable Eva Townley, who
was at supper with her mother and same friends, bowed to him and
laughed, while another woman, the rather go-ahead wife of a leader at
the Chancery Bar, waved a menu at him.

Society knew Max, and many a woman had set her cap at him, hoping to
capture the tall, well-set-up and easy-going young fellow, together with
the ease and comfort which his substantial estates would afford.

Max, however, had done a few years of town life.  He had become _blase_
and nauseated.  Since he had met Marion Rolfe the quiet, modest,
unassuming and hard-working shop-assistant, the _haute monde_ bored him
more than ever.  He went only where he was compelled, yet he nowadays
preferred the cheap Italian restaurant and Marion's society to the
tables of the rich with their ugly women striving to fascinate, and
their small-talk of scandal, gossip and cruel innuendo.

There is surely no world in the world like that of London--nothing so
complex, so tragic, and yet so grimly humorous, so soul-killing, and yet
so reckless as our little, lax world of vanity and display that calls
itself Society, the world which the _nouveau riche_ are ever seeking to
enter by the back-door, and which the suburbs rush to see portrayed upon
the stage of the theatre.

Everywhere the manner and morals of Mayfair are aped nowadays.  Mrs
Browne-Smythe, the City clerk's wife of tattling Tooting, has her "day,"
and gives her bridge-parties just as does the Duchess of Dorsetshire in
Grosvenor Square; and Mrs Claude Greene, the wife of the wholesale
butcher, who was once a barmaid near the Meat Market, and now lives in
matrimonial felicity in cliquey Clapham, "requests the company of" upon
the self-same cards and with the self-same formula as the wife of Jimmy
James the South African magnate in Park Lane.

Max, glad that supper was over, rose and walked with his friend out into
the big lounge where the Roumanian band were playing weird gipsy
melodies, and sat at one of the little tables to smoke and sip Grand
Marnier cordon rouge, being joined a few moments later by a couple of
men whom he knew at the club, and who appeared to be at a loose end.

At last the lights were turned down as signal that in five minutes it
would be closing time, and then rifling, Max, ignorant of the ingenious
plot, invited his friend Adam round to Dover Street for a final smoke.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

EXPLAINS JEAN ADAM'S SUGGESTION.

Over whiskey and soda in Barclay's chambers, Jean Adam pushed his
sinister plans a trifle further.

He was aware that Max had taken the opinion of a man he knew on the
Stock Exchange as to the probable value of the concession for the
Danube-Adriatic Railway, and that his reply had been highly favourable.
Therefore he was confident that such an opportunity of making money by
an honest deal Max would not let slip.

They had known each other several months, and Adam, with his engaging
manner and courteous bearing, had wormed himself into the younger man's
confidence.  A dozen times Max had been his host, but on each occasion
the other took good care to quickly return the hospitality.  To Max he
represented himself as resident in Constantinople.  A few years ago he
had been fortunate enough to obtain a concession from the Ottoman
Government which, being floated in Paris, had placed him in a very
comfortable position; and he was now about to aim for bigger and more
lucrative things.

"You see," he was saying as he produced an official report to the
Foreign Office--a pamphlet-like document in a blue paper cover--"here is
what our consul in Belgrade reported on the scheme two years ago.  Such
a line, he says, would tap nearly half the trade that now goes to
Odessa, besides giving Servia a seaport.  It will be the biggest thing
in railways for years, depend upon it."

Max went to the writing-table, where the lamp was burning, and glanced
through the paragraphs of the consular report and several other printed
documents which his friend handed to him in succession.  Then Adam
produced a map, and upon it traced the route of the proposed line.

"Well," Barclay said at last, rising and lighting a cigar.

"It all seems pretty plain sailing.  I'll go to-morrow and see old
Statham about it.  His secretary, Rolfe, is a friend of mine."

"No, Mr Barclay," said the wily Adam.  "If I were you I would not."

"Why?"

"Well, if you do, you'll queer all our plans--both yours and mine," he
mused vaguely.

"How?"

"Sam Statham has agents in Constantinople--agents who could offer Muhil
double the price immediately, and the ground would be cut from under our
feet.  Statham knows a good thing when he sees it, you bet, and if he
knew anything about this he wouldn't stick at a thousand or two."

"Then he doesn't know?"

"At present he can't know.  It is a secret between Muhil, Osman, and
myself?"

"And what about the French people?"

"Of course they know; but they're not such fools as to let out the
secret," replied Adam.

"Well, what do you suggest?"  Max asked, taking a pull at the long
tumbler.

"That we keep the affair strictly to ourselves.  Once we have the
concession in our hands there'll be a hundred men in the City ready to
take it up.  Why, old Statham would give us a big profit on it,
especially if, as you say, you know his secretary."

"That was his secretary's sister whom you met with me to-night," Max
remarked.

"What an extremely pretty girl," exclaimed Adam enthusiastically.

"Think so?" asked Barclay with a smile of satisfaction.  "Why, of
course.  A face like here isn't seen every day.  I was much struck with
it when I first noticed you from the circle, and wondered whom she might
be.  Rolfe's her name, is it?" he added with a feigned air of
uncertainty.

"Yes.  Charlie Rolfe is old Sam's confidential secretary."

"Well, afterwards, through him, we might interest Sam," remarked Adam.
"What we have first to do is to get hold of the concession."

"But how?"

"By buying it."

The two men smoked in silence.  Adam's quick eye saw that the affair was
full of attraction for the man he had marked down as victim.

"You mean that I should put twelve thousand into it?" he said.

"Not at all," responded the wily Adam at once.  "In any case I do not
propose that you should put up the whole sum.  My idea is that we should
put up six thousand each."

"And go shares?"

"And go shares," repeated Adam, knocking the ash from his cigar.  "But
prior to doing so I think it would be only right for you to go out to
Constantinople, see Muhil, and ascertain the truth of the whole affair.
You have only my word for it all--and the letter.  I quite admit that
they are not sufficient guarantee for you to put down six thousand.  You
are too good a business man for that."

Max was flattered by that last sentence.

"Well," he said smiling, "I really think it would be more satisfactory
if I had--well, some confirmation of all these comments."

"You can obtain that at once by going out to Constantinople," declared
Adam.  "You'll be out and home in ten days, and I'll go with you," he
added persuasively.

"Well, I shall have to consider it," the younger man replied after a
brief pause.

"There is very little time to consider," Adam said.  "The French people
are at work, and if they raise the purchase price to Muhil we shall be
compelled to do the same."

"But we can get an option, I suppose?"

"I have it.  But it expires in ten days from to-morrow.  After that
Muhil will make the best terms he can with the French.  The latter will
have to pay through the nose, no doubt, but they'll get it, without
doubt.  Their Embassy is helping them."

"And how long can I have to decide?"

"To reach Constantinople in time we have six days more.  We might then
take the Orient Express from Paris and just do it.  But," he added, "of
course if your inclination is against the journey and inquiry I hope
you'll allow me to assess it before somebody else.  Personally," he
laughed, "I can't afford to miss this chance of making a fortune.  This,
remember, is no wild mining speculation: it's solid, bed-rock
enterprise.  The Servians surveyed the line four years ago and got out
plans and estimates.  There's a printed copy of them at the Servian
Consulate here in London.  So it's all cut-and-dried."

"Well I hope, Adam, you'll allow me a little time to reflect.  Six
thousand is a decent sum, you know."

"I don't want it until you've been out there and seen Muhil, Mr
Barclay," Adam declared.  "Indeed, I refuse to touch it until you have
personally satisfied yourself of the _bona fides_ of the scheme.  Muhil
himself must first assure you of the existence of the _irade_, and that
it is actually in is possession.  Then I will put up six thousand if you
will put up the balance."

"And if it is more than twelve?"

"Why, we share the increase equally, of course."

"Very well.  So far as it goes it is agreed," said Max.  "It only
remains whether I go out to Turkey, or not."

"That's all.  The sooner you can decide, the better for our plans," Adam
remarked.  "Only take good care that old Statham does not learn what's
in the wind.  You know him, I believe?"

"Yes, slightly.  He's a queer old fellow--very eccentric."

"So I've heard," said the other, betraying ignorance.  What would Max
Barclay have thought if he had witnessed that scene so recently when the
millionaire had glanced out of his cosy library and seen the shabby
stranger lounging against the railings of the Park?  What, indeed, would
he have thought if he had witnessed old Sam's consequent agitation, or
overheard his confession to Rolfe?

But he knew nothing of it all.  Adam had shown him the best side of his
nature--the easy-going and keen money-making cosmopolitan whose manner
was so gentlemanly and so very charming.  He had not seen the other--the
side which Samuel Statham knew too well.

Adam, seated there in the big saddle-bag chair, in the full enjoyment of
the excellent cigar, knew that with the exercise of a little further
ingenuity he would make the first step towards the goal he had in view.
He was a man who took counsel of nobody, and even the old hunchback
Lyle, his closest friend, knew nothing of his object in drawing Max
Barclay, until recently a perfect stranger, into the fatal net spread
for him.

He smiled within himself as he calmly contemplated his victim through
the haze of tobacco smoke.  The dock upon the mantelshelf had struck
two.

He took a final drink, slipped on his coat, and with a merry _bon soir_
and an injunction to make up his mind and wire him at the earliest
moment, he shook his friend's hand and went out.

Max sat alone for a long time, still smoking.  In his ignorance he was
reflecting that the business seemed a sound one.  Adam had not asked him
to put down money before full inquiry, and had, at the same time,
offered to put up half.  This latter fact, in itself, showed that his
friend had confidence in the scheme.

And so, before he turned in that night, he had practically made up his
mind to pay a flying visit to the Sultan's capital.  There could be no
harm done, he argued.  He had never been in Constantinople, and to go
there with a resident like Adam was in itself an opportunity not to be
missed.

Meanwhile the astute concession-hunter, as he drove to Addison Road in a
cab, was calmly plotting a further step in the direction he was slowly
but surely following.  His daring and ingenuity knew no bounds.  He was
a man full of energy and resource, unabashed, undaunted, unscrupulous,
and yet to all, even to his most intimate friend, a perfect sphinx.

The second step in his progress he took on the evening of the day after.

In the afternoon, about four, a shabbily-dressed man called upon him at
his flat, and they remained together for ten minutes or so.  At
half-past eight, as Marion was about to enter a 'bus at Oxford Circus to
take her up to Hampstead for a blow--a trip she frequently took in the
evening when alone--she heard her name uttered, and turning, found Max's
polite French friend behind her, about to mount on the same conveyance.

To avoid him was impossible, therefore they ascended to the top
together, he declaring that he was on his way to Hampstead.

"I'm going there too," she told him, although he already knew it quite
well.  "Have you seen Mr Barclay to-day?"

"Not to-day.  I have been busy in the City," Adam explained.  He glanced
at her, and could not refrain from noting her neat appearance, dressed
as she was in a black skirt, white cotton blouse, and a black hat which
suited her beauty admirably.  He knew that she was at Cunnington's, but,
of course, appeared in ignorance of the fact.  He was most kind and
courteous to her, and so well had he arranged the meeting that she
believed it to be entirely an accident.

Presently, after they had chatted for some time, he sighed, saying--

"In a few days I suppose I must leave London again."

"Oh! are you going abroad?"

"Yes, to Constantinople.  I live there," he said.

"In Constantinople!  How very strange it must be to live among the
Turks!"

"It is a very charming life, I assure you, Miss Rolfe," he answered.
"The Turk is always a gentleman, and his country is full of beauty and
attraction, even though his capital may be muddy under foot."

"Oh, well," she said laughing, "I don't think I should care to live
there.  I should be afraid of them!"

"Your fears would be quite ungrounded," he declared.  "A lady can walk
unmolested in the streets of Constantinople at any hour of the day or
night, which cannot be said, of your London here."

Then, after a pause, he added--

"I think your friend Mr Barclay is coming with me."

"With you?--to Constantinople?" she exclaimed in dismay.  "When?"

"In two or three days," he replied.  "But you mustn't tell him I said
so," he went on.  "We are going out on business--business that will
bring us both a sum of money that will be a fortune to me, if not to Mr
Barclay.  We are in partnership over it."

"What nature is the business?"

"The building of a railroad to the Adriatic.  We are obtaining
permission from the Sultan for its construction."

"And Max--I mean Mr Barclay--will make a large sum?" she asked with
deep interest.

"Yes, if he decides to go," replied Adam; "but I fear very much one
thing," and he fixed his dark eyes upon hers.

"What do you fear?"

"Well--how shall I put it, Miss Rolfe?" he asked.  "I--I fear that he
will refuse to go because he does not wish to leave London just now."

"Why not?"

"He has an attraction here," the man laughed--"yourself."

She coloured slightly.  Max had probably told this friend that they were
lovers.

"Oh! that's quite foolish.  He must go, if it is really in his
interests."

"Exactly," declared Adam.  "I have all my life been looking for such a
chance to make money, and it has at last arrived.  He must go."

"Most certainly.  I will urge him strongly."

"A word from you, Miss Rolfe, would decide him--but--well, don't you
think it would be best if you did not tell him that we had met.  He
might not like it if he knew we had discussed his business affairs--eh?"

"Very well," she said.  "I will say nothing.  When he speaks to me about
the suggested journey I will strongly advise him to go in his own
interests."

"Yes; do.  It will be the means of putting many thousands of pounds into
both our pockets.  The matter is, in fact, entirely in your hands.  May
I with safety leave it there?"

"With perfect safety, Mr Adam," was her reply.  "It is, perhaps,
fortunate that we should have met like this to-night."

"Fortunate!" he echoed.  "Most fortunate for all of us.  If you are
really Mr Barclay's friend you will see that he goes with me."

"I am his friend, and he shall go if it is to his interest to do go."

"Ask him, and he will tell you," was the reply of the man who had
lounged in Park Lane as a shabby stranger, and of whom old Sam Statham
went in such deadly fear.

He went with Marion to the end of her journey, and then left her in
pretence of walking to his destination.

But after he had raised his hat to her so politely, and bent over her
hand, he turned on his heel muttering to himself--

"You think you are his friend, my poor, silly little girl!  No.  You
will compel him to go with me to the East, and thus become my catspaw--
the tool of Jean Adam."

And giving vent to a short, dry laugh of triumph, he went on his way.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

SHOWS MR STATHAM AT HOME.

Many a man and many a woman, as they passed up Park Lane on
motor-'buses, in cabs, or on foot, glanced at the white house of Samuel
Statham, and wondered.

The mystery concerning it and its owner always attracted them.  Many
were the weird stories afloat concerning it, stories greatly akin to
those already told in a previous chapter.  Men had watched, it was said,
and had seen queer goings and comings.  But as the matter concerned
nobody in particular it merely excited public curiosity.

That Sam Statham was eccentric all the world knew.  Society gossips in
the papers were fond of referring to the millionaire as "the recluse of
Park Lane" when recording some handsome donation to a charitable
institution, or expressing a surprise that he was never seen at public
functions such as the opening of hospitals or children's homes which he
had himself endowed.

But the word "eccentric" explained it all.  As regards the mansion in
Park Lane they were always silent, for the elastic law of libel is ever
before the eyes of the journalist who deals in tittle-tattle.

Though the stories concerning the millionaire's residence were curious
and sometimes sensational--many of them of course invented--yet colour
was certainly lent to them by the fact that the old man saw nobody
except Levi and his secretary, and nobody had ever been known to pass
that closed door at the head of the staircase.

Anyone, however, catching a glimpse of the interior of the hall when
passing, saw old Levi in black, with his strip of spotless shirt-front,
and behind, a wide hall with thick Turkey carpet, huge blue antique
vases, carved furniture, and several fine pictures, the whole possessing
an air of solidity and wealth.  Beyond, however, was the Unknown and the
Mysterious.

In the clubs and over dinner-tables the mystery of that Park Lane house
was often spoken of.  Men usually shook their heads and said little, but
women expressed their opinion freely, and formed all sorts of wild
theories.

Among the men who had always been attracted by the stories afloat were
Charlie Rolfe, because of his close association with the old man, and
Max Barclay, because of his intimate friendship with Rolfe.  The latter
had always been full of suspicion.  Sam and Levi, master and man, were
the only two who knew the truth of what lay behind that locked door.
And the servant guarded his master's secret well.  He was janitor there,
and no one passed the threshold into old Sam's library without a very
good cause, and without the permission of the master himself.

A thousand times, as Rolfe had gone in and out of the place, he had
glanced up the broad, well-carpeted stairs, at the foot of which stood
the fine marble Aphrodite, holding the great electrolier, and at the
head, to the corner out of sight, was the locked door upon which half
London had commented.

Had Samuel Statham thrown open his house only once, and given a
reception, all gossip would be allayed.  Indeed, as Rolfe sat with his
master in the library the morning following Adam's meeting with Marion,
he, without telling Sam the reason, suggested an entertainment in
November.  He said that Society were wondering he did not seek to make
their acquaintance.  There were hundreds of people dying to know him.

"Yes," snapped the old man, glancing around the darkened room, for the
morning sun was full upon the house.  "I know them.  They'd come here,
crush and guzzle, eat my dinners, drink my wine, and go away without
even remembering my name.  Oh!  I know what the so-called aristocracy we
like, never fear.  Most of them live upon people like myself who are
vain-glorious enough to be pleased to number the Earl of So-and-So and
the Countess of Slush among their personal friends.

"Men with wives can't help being drawn into it.  The womenfolk like to
speak of `dear Lady Longneck,' slobber over some old titled hag at
parting, or find their names in the `Court and Society' column of the
_Daily Snivel_.  It's their nature to be ambitious; but when a man's
single, like myself, Rolfe, he can please himself.  That's why I shut my
door in their faces."

"Of course, you can afford to," the secretary replied, leaning both his
elbows on the table and looking straight into his master's face.  "Few
men could do as you do.  It would be against their interests."

"It may be even against my interests," the old man said thoughtfully,
leaning back in his chair, "for I might get a good deal of fun out of
watching them trying to squeeze a little money out of me, or worm from
me what men call `tips' regarding investments.  Why, my dear Rolfe, once
my door is opened to them, my life would no longer be worth living.
Instead of one secretary I'd want a dozen, and Levi would be at the door
all day long answering callers.  Other men who live in this street on
either side of me have done it to their cost."

"I've heard it said in the clubs that you, with your vast means and huge
interests, owe a duty to Society," Rolfe remarked.

"I owe no duty to Society," the old fellow declared angrily.  "Society
owes nothing to me, and I owe nothing to it.  You know, Rolfe, how--
well--how I hate women--and I won't have a pack of chatterboxes about my
place.  If I was a man with five hundred a year they wouldn't want to
know me."

"That's very true," Rolfe remarked with a slight sigh.  "Nowadays, when
a man has money he is at once called a gentleman.  A lady is the wife of
a man with money, whatever may have been her past--or her present."

The old man laughed.

"And there is the `perfect lady,'" he said.  "A genus usually associated
with the police-court.  But you are quite right, Rolfe, nowadays,
according to our modern code, a poor man cannot be a gentleman.  No, as
long as I live, the needy aristocracy which calls itself Society shall
never my threshold.  I will remain independent of them, for I have no
womankind, and no fish to fry.  I don't want a baronetcy, or a peerage.
I don't want shooting, or deer-stalking, or yachting, or hunting, or any
of those pastimes.  I merely want to be left alone here in peace--if it
is possible."  And he drew a long breath as the ugly recollection of the
shabby stranger crossed his mind.

Rolfe knew well that the old man's objections were because he dare not
throw open the mansion.  Some secret was hidden there which he could not
reveal.  What was it?  Why were those brilliant lights sometimes at
night in the upper windows?  He had seen them himself sometimes as he
passed along near midnight on his way to his chambers in Jermyn Street,
and had been sorely puzzled.  More than once he had been convinced that
somebody lived in the upper floors--somebody who was never seen.  Yet if
that were so, why should there be such secrecy regarding it.  The
occupant, whoever it was, could easily vacate the place while a
reception was held.

As he sat there listening to the old man's tirade against the West-End
and its ways he felt that there must be some far greater mystery than an
unseen tenant.

That old Sam knew quite well the rumour concerning the house, was
evident.  Keeping secret agents in every capital as he was forced to
do--agents, male and female, who knew everything and reported exactly
what he wished to know--it was certain that public opinion concerning
him was well-known to him.  Yet, as in a scandal, the man most concerned
is always the last to get wind of it.  Perhaps after all he might be in
ignorance of what people were saying, although it was hardly credible
that Ben, his brother, would not tell him.

For craft and cunning few men in London could compare with Sam Statham,
yet at the same time he was just in his judgment and honest in his
transactions.  The weak and needy he befriended, but woe betide any who
endeavoured to mislead him or impose upon his generosity.

More than one man had, by receiving a word of good advice from Sam
Statham and the temporary loan of a few thousand as capital, awakened in
a week's time to find himself wealthy.  One man in particular, now a
well-known baronet, had risen in ten years from being a small draper in
Launceston to his present position with an estate in Suffolk and a town
house in Green Street, merely by taking Sam Statham's advice as to
certain investments.

It was owing to this fact, and others, that old Sam, as he rose from the
table and crossed the room to the window, where he pulled aside the
blind to look out upon the sunny roadway, said--

"I myself, Rolfe, have made one or two so-called gentlemen.  But," he
added, drawing a deep breath, "let's put all that aside and get on with
the letters.  I'm expecting that Scotch friend of yours, the locomotive
designer of Glasgow."

"Oh, Macgregor!" remarked the secretary.  "He was most pertinacious the
other day."

"All Scots are," replied the old man simply.  "Let's get on."  And
returning to the table he took up letter after letter and dictated
replies in his sharp, snappy way which, to those who did not know him,
would have appeared priggish and uncouth.

The reason of Macgregor's visit to Old Broad Street had caused Rolfe a
good deal of curiosity.  He recollected how, on the instant his master
had read the old engineer's scribbled lines, his face fell.  The visitor
was at all events not a welcome one.  Yet, on the other hand, he had
seen him without delay, and they had been closeted together for quite a
long time.

When the bearded Scot left, and he had re-entered the millionaire's
room, two facts struck him as peculiar.  One was that a strong smell of
burnt paper and a quantity of black tinder in the empty grate showed
that some papers had been burned there, while the other was that old Sam
was in the act of lighting a cigar, in itself showing a buoyancy of
mind.

He never smoked when down at the bank, and very seldom when at home.
His cigars, too, were of a cheap quality which even his clerks would be
ashamed to offer their friends.  Indeed, while all connected with the
house in Old Broad Street possessed an air of solid prosperity, the head
of the firm was usually of a penurious and hard-up aspect, as though he
had a difficulty in making both ends meet.  His smart electric brougham
he used only once a week to take him to the City and back again.  At
other times he strolled about the streets so shabby as to pass unnoticed
by those desirous of making his acquaintance and worming themselves into
his good graces; or else he would idle in the park where he passed for a
lounger who, crowded out by reason of his age, was down on his luck.

Samuel Statham loved the Park.  Often and often he would get into
conversation with the flotsam and jetsam of London life--the unemployed,
and the men who, in these days of hustle, alas! find themselves too old
at forty.  The ne'er-do-wells he knew quite well, and they believed him
to be one of themselves.  But he was ever on the look-out for a
deserving case--the starving, despondent man with wife and children
hungry at home.  He would draw the man's story from him, hear his
complaint against unfair treatment, listen attentively to his wrongs,
and pretending all the time to have suffered in a similar way himself.

Usually the man would, in the end, invite him to the home or the
lodging-house where his wife and children were, and then, on
ascertaining that the case was genuine, he would suddenly reveal himself
as the good Samaritan.

To such men he gave himself out as Mr Jones, agent of a benevolent
society which was nameless, and which did its work without
advertisement, and extracted a pledge of secrecy.  By such means many a
dozen honest, hard-working men, who through no fault of their own had
been thrown out of employment, had been "put upon their legs" again and
gained work, and yet not one of them ever suspected that the shabby,
down-at-heel man Jones was actually the millionaire Samuel Statham, who
lived in the white house in fall view of the seat whereon they had first
met.

Even from Rolfe he sought to conceal this secret philanthropy, yet the
young man had guessed something of it.  He had more than once caught him
talking to strange men whose pinched faces and trim appearance told the
truth.

The man whose vast wealth had brought him nothing but isolation and
loneliness, delighted in performing these good works, and in rescuing
the unfortunate wives and families of the deserving ones who were
luckless.  He loved to see the brightness overspread those dark,
despairing faces, and to hear the heartfelt thanks which he was told to
convey to the mythical "society."

Never but once did he allow a man to suspect that the money he gave came
from his own pocket.  That single occasion was when, after giving a man
whom he believed to be deserving a sovereign, he next evening found him
in the park the worse for liquor.

He said nothing that night, but a few days later, when he met him, he
gave him a piece of his mind which the plausible good-for-nothing would
not quickly forget.

"Such frauds as you," he had said, "prevent people from assisting the
deserving poor.  I've made inquiry into your story, and found it false
from beginning to end.  You have no wife, and the four children starving
and ill that you described to me do not exist.  You live for the most
part in the bar of the `Star,' off the Edgware Road, and on the night
after I gave you the money you were so drunk that they wouldn't serve
you.  Such men like you," he went on with withering sarcasm, his grey
beard bristling as he spoke, and his fist clenched fiercely, "are a
disgrace to the human race, for you are a liar, a drunkard, and a
blackguard--a man who deserves the death that will, I hope, overtake
you--death in the gutter."

And he turned upon his heel, leaving the accused man standing staring at
him open-mouthed, utterly unable to offer a single word in self-defence.

This secret charity was Sam Statham's only recreation.  By it he made
many friends whom he had taken out of the slums--friends who were
perhaps more devoted and true to him than those to whom he had given
financial "tips," and who had made many thousands thereby.  In many a
modest home was Mr Jones a welcome guest whenever he called to see how
"his friends" were progressing, and many a time had he drunk a humble
glass of bitter "sent out" for by his thankful and devoted host who was
all unconscious of who his guest really was.  The world would have
laughed at the idea of a working man standing Samuel Statham a glass of
ale.

One case was old Sam's particular pride.  About eighteen months before,
in the park one day, he came across a despairing but well-educated,
middle-aged man, who at first was not at all communicative, but whose
bearing and manner was that of refinement and culture.  Three times they
met, and it was very evident that the sad-faced man was starving.

At last Sam offered to "stand him" a meal, and over it the man told a
pathetic story, how that he was a fully-qualified medical man in
practice in York, but owing to his unfortunate habit of drinking he had
lost everything, sold his practice, and had been compelled to leave the
city.  The proceeds of his practice had soon gone in drink, and now,
with all the bitter remorse upon him, he and his wife and two small
children were faced with starvation.  Friends and relations would not
assist him because of his intemperance.  There was only one way out of
it all, he declared--suicide.

Sam had taken him in hand.  He had seen the wife and children, and then
explained, as usual, that he was Mr Jones.  Small sums he first gave
them, and finding that his charity was never abused, and that the doctor
withstood the temptation to drink, he had gone to an agency, the address
of which he had found in the _Lancet_, and bought a comfortable little
practice with a furnished house in West Norwood, where the doctor and
his family were now installed and doing well.

In West Norwood to-day that doctor is the most popular and the most
sought after.  His practice is ever increasing, and already he has
nearly repaid the whole of the sum which Mr Jones lent him, and has
been compelled to take an assistant.

The doctor is still in ignorance, however, for he has never identified
Mr Jones with Statham the millionaire.  But was it surprising that at
his house no guest was more welcome than the man who had rescued him
from ruin and from death?

Truly money, if properly applied, can do much to alleviate the
sufferings of the world, and as it is the "root of all evil," so it is
also the root of all good.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

TELLS OF THE THREE.

"Well?"

"Weel?" asked Duncan Macgregor, who was seated in an easy attitude in
Sam Statham's library.  At the table sat the millionaire himself, while
near by, in the enjoyment of a cigar, sat old Levi.  The latter was
still in his garb of service, but his attitude was certainly more like
that of his master's intimate friend than that of butler.

It was from his thin lips that the query had escaped in response to a
fact which the Scot had emphasised with his hairy fist.

"Well," exclaimed Statham after a pause, "and what do you suppose should
be done, Mr--"

"Macgregor--still Duncan Macgregor," exclaimed the bearded man,
concluding the millionaire's sentence.  "That's the verra thing that
puzzles me, mon.  P'raps we'd best wait a wee bittie an' see."

Levi dissented.  He knew that whatever his position in that strange
household, his master always listened to him and took his advice--
sometimes when it involved the risk of many thousands.  He was a kind of
oracle, for generally when Ben came there to consult his brother upon
some important point, the old servant remained in the room to hear the
discussion and to give his dry but candid opinion.

"My own opinion is that we should act at once--without fear.  The
slightest hesitation now will be our undoing, depend upon it," he said.

"Ah!  Mr Levi," exclaimed the Scot, "I'm a'ways for caution.  Hasna'
our ain Bobbie said that facts are chiels that winna ding, and downa be
disputed?"

"Yes; but we've not yet quite established the facts yet, you see,"
Statham said.

"Why, mon, isn't it as plain as plain can be?  What mair d'ye want?"

"A good deal," Levi chimed in in his squeaky voice.  "We can't act on
that.  It's too shadowy altogether."

"I tell ye it isn't!" cried Duncan, shaking his clenched fist again.
"Mr Statham is in sair peril, I tell ye he is, an' I've proved it."

"Mr Statham must be allowed to be the best judge of that," Levi said,
placing his hands together, and holding his cigar between his teeth.

"Mr Statham knows me weel.  He knows I'd nae tell him what I didn't ken
ma'sel'."

The great financier rose thoughtfully and stood with his back to the
mantelshelf.

"Look here, Macgregor," he said, fixing his eyes upon the man seated
before him.  "When you called at the office and was fool enough not to
give your proper name you had a difficulty in getting an interview with
me.  I hadn't any idea till I received your note that--well, that you
were in the land of the living.  When we met before it was under
different circumstances--very different, weren't they?" and the
millionaire smiled.  "Shall I recall to your memory one scene--long
ago--a scene that lives in my memory this moment as though the events
happened but yesterday.  We were both younger, and more active then--you
and I--and--"

"Nae, Mr Statham.  We're better not bearin' it," he protested, holding
up his hands.  "I jalouse what you're again' to say."

"To you, my friend, I owe much," the old man went on.  "The place was in
a sun-baked South American city, the time was sunset, fierce and
blood-red like the deeds of that never-to-be-forgotten day.  There was
war--a revolution was in progress, and the Government forces had been
that day driven back into the capital followed by us.  I remember you,
with that great bullet furrow down your cheek and the blood streaming
from it as you fought at my side.  I see you bear the scar even now."
Then, with a quick movement he pulled up his sleeve and showed on his
right forearm a great cicatrice, asking: "Do you remember how I received
this?"

"Nae, nae, Mr Statham, enough!" cried the Scot.  "Our days of war are
long since past.  They'll come again nae mair."

"You remember how we followed the troops of Hernandez into the capital,
shooting and killing as we drove them before us, and how you and I and a
few more of the younger bloods made a dash for the Palace to secure the
President himself.  I recollect the wild excitement of those moments.  I
was tearing along the street shouting and urging on my men, when of a
sudden I found myself surrounded by a dozen soldiers of Hernandez.  I
fought for life, though well knowing I was lost.  As a prisoner I should
be tortured, for they had long sworn to serve me as they had served our
friends Jose and Manuel.  This recollection flashed across me, and with
my back to the wall I fired my pistol full in a man's face and blew it
out of all recognition.  A man had raised his rifle and covered me, but
next moment I gave him an upward cut with my sword.

"At the same instant I felt a sharp twinge upon my right arm, and my
sword dropped from my grasp.  I was maimed, and stood there at their
mercy.  A dark-faced, beetle-browed fellow raised his sabre with a
fierce Spanish oath to cut me down, but in the blood-red sunlight
another blade flashed high, and the man sank dying in the dust.

"It was you, Macgregor--you alone had come to my aid, and four of my
attackers fell beneath your blows in that hand-to-hand struggle as you,
with your own body placed before mine, fought on, keeping them back and
yet without assistance.  Shall I ever forget those moments, or how near
both of us were to death?  I was already half-fainting, but you shouted
to me to keep courage, and in the end we were discovered by our men and
saved.  If ever a deed deserved the Victoria Cross, yours did.  You,
Macgregor--as you now call yourself--saved my life."

"An' I'm here, Mr Statham, to save it again, if ye'll only let me," was
the Scot's dry reply.

"Years have gone since that day," the millionaire went on, with a
distinct catch in his voice.  "I lost sight of you soon afterwards, and
heard once that you were in Caracas.  Then there was no further news of
you.  We drifted apart--our lives lay in opposite directions.  Yet to
you--and to you alone--I owe my present life, for were it not for your
aid at that moment I should have been put to the torture in that
terrible castle where Hernandez did his prisoners to death, and my body
given to the rats like others of our friends."

"Eh, mon, ye really make me blush," laughed Macgregor.  "So please don't
talk of it.  That's all over the noo.  Let the past take care of itsel'.
We've got the present to face."

"I have never ceased reflecting upon the past," Sam declared in a rather
low and husky voice.  "I never dreamed that the man Macgregor, in the
employ of the Clyde and Motherwell Works, was the same man to whom I am
indebted for my life."

"Ah! man's a problem that puzzles the devil hissel'," laughed Macgregor.
"I'd nae ha kenned ye were the Statham I knew out there in the old days
till I saw the picture of ye in the _Glasgie News_ one nicht when I
bought it at the corner of Polmadie Street on me way hame.  An' there
was a biography of ye--which didn't mention very much.  But it was the
real Sam Statham--and Sam Statham was my friend of long ago."

"Most extraordinary!" remarked Levi, who had been smoking quietly and
listening to the conversation.  "I had so idea of all this!"

"There are many incidents in my career, Levi, of which you are unaware,"
remarked his master drily.

"I have no doubt," retorted the servant in a tone quite as dry as that
of his master's.  This was Duncan Macgregor's first visit to Park Lane,
and Levi did not approve of him.  He always looked askance at any friend
of Mr Samuel's of the old days.  Everybody who had ever known him in
the unknown and struggling period, now claimed his acquaintance as his
intimate friend, and various and varied were the ruses adopted in order
to endeavour to obtain an interview.

He suspected this hairy Scot--whose bravery in his youth had saved Sam's
life--of working for his own ends.

"This is a strange story of yours, Duncan," remarked the millionaire a
few moments later, his eyes fixed upon the seated man--"so strange that
I should not believe it, but for one thing."

"An' what's that?"

"Other information in my possession goes to prove that your surmise is
actually correct, and that your apprehension has foundation.  I know
that Adam is in London.  I've seen him!"

"An' he's seen you--eh?" cried Macgregor, starting up in alarm.

"Yes, he's seen me."

"Did he speak to ye?"

"No.  He watched me through the window from yonder pavement outside."

A silence fell in that warm room where the blinds were still down to
exclude the sun, a silence unbroken save by the buzzing of the flies and
the low, solemn ticking of the clock.

At last the Scot spoke.

"He means mischief.  Depend on it."

"I quite believe he does," Statham admitted.

"That is why we should act at once," Levi chimed in.

"And perhaps by a premature move spoil the whole of our chance of
victory!" remarked the millionaire, very thoughtfully.

"Remember that Adam holds very strong cards in the game," the butler
urged, knocking the ash slowly from his cigar.  Surely it was a queer,
unusual scene, this conference of three!

"I have suspected something for some time past, Levi," was his master's
response.  "And I took steps to combat my enemies; but, unfortunately, I
was not sufficiently wary, and I failed."

"What, mon!" gasped the man from Glasgow; "ye don't say ye're at the
mercy of those devils?"

"I tell you, Macgregor, that my position is more insecure than even you
believe it to be," was the response, in a low voice, almost of despair.

Levi and Duncan exchanged glances.  The millionaire's words were
somewhat enigmatical, but the truth was apparent.  Samuel Statham was in
fear of some revelation which could be made by that shabby stranger whom
he had seen idling at the Park railings.

"Tell me, Macgregor.  Does Adam know you?"

"No."

"You've seen him, and you know him?"

"Perfectly weel.  I kept ma eye on him when he didn't dream that anybody
was nigh him."

"And what you told me in the City you are prepared to stand by?"

The Scot put out his big hands, saying:

"Mr Statham, what I've told ye I stick to."

"Duncan," said the great man, clasping the hand offered him.  "You were
my friend once--my best friend--and you will be so again."

"If ye'll let me be," answered the other warmly.  Statham could read a
man's innermost character at a glance.  He was seldom, if ever,
mistaken.  He looked into Macgregor's eyes, and saw truth and friendship
there.

As Levi watched the two men his lip curled slightly.  He was a cynic,
and did not approve of this outburst of sentimentality on the part of
his master.  Samuel Statham, the man of millions and the controller of
colossal interests, should, he declared within himself, be above such an
exhibition of his own heart.

"Is it not strange," remarked Statham, as though speaking to himself,
"that you should actually have been engaged in my works without knowing
that it was the head of the firm who was indebted to you for his life?"

"Ay, the world's only a sma' space, after all," Duncan replied.  "I was
apprenticed to the firm, but soon got sick of a humdrum life.  So I went
out to South America to try ma fortune, an' we met.  After the war I
went to Caracas, and then back to Glasgie to the old firm, where I've
been ever since.  I thought that when the new company took the place
over I'd be discharged as too old.  Indeed, more than once Mr Rolfe has
hinted at it."

"I don't think you'd need fear that, Duncan.  Both you and I recollect
scenes set in strong remembrance--scenes that are never to return.  I
had no idea it was you to whom the creditable work turned out at Glasgow
was due until Rolfe told me all about you," and as he uttered those
words a twinge of conscience shot through his mind as he recollected how
he had ordered the man to be summarily discharged for daring to seek an
interview.  And then how, when he had entered his presence, he had
handed him something that was far better destroyed.  They had indeed
destroyed it together.

He saw that Macgregor had no great love for Rolfe, but put it down to
the fact that his secretary, being practically in charge of the works,
had become out of favour with the men over the question of labour.  The
Scot had said nothing derogatory regarding Charlie, but merely expressed
surprise that he had not been accorded an interview at once.  Then he
had urged that he had something of importance and of interest to impart.

"Well, you see, Macgregor," replied the millionaire, half
apologetically; "the fact is I have to make it a rule to see nobody.  Of
course, to old friends, like yourself, I am always accessible, and
delighted to have a chat, but if it were known that I received people, I
should be besieged here all day long.  I make it a rule not to allow
anybody here in my house."

"Why?" asked the Scot, quite unconscious of the gravity of his inquiry.
He was in entire ignorance of the strange stories concerning the house
wherein he was at that moment.  The papers never mentioned them for fear
of an action for libel.  As far as he had seen there was nothing
peculiar or extraordinary about the place.  The hall and the library
were very handsomely furnished, as befitted the home of one of England's
wealthiest men.  The fact that Levi had been called into conference even
was not remarkable, for the reason had already been explained to him
briefly, in half-a-dozen words.

"But you have your ain circle of good friends here, I suppose?"
suggested the Scot, as the great man had not replied to his question.

"No," replied Statham.  "Nobody comes here--nobody enters my door."

"But why?"

Master and servant exchanged glances.  It was a direct question to which
it was impossible to give a truthful reply without the revelation of a
secret.

And so Samuel Statham lied to his best, humble yet most devoted friend.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

LONDON LOVERS.

Nearly three weeks had now passed since the extraordinary disappearance
of Dr Petrovitch and his daughter from the house in Cromwell Road.

The cleverness with which the removal of their household goods had been
effected, and the cunning and ingenuity displayed regarding them, showed
Max Barclay plainly that the disappearance had been carefully planned,
and that those assisting had been well paid for keeping their secret.

And yet, after all, it was quite possible that the men who had removed
the furniture from the house were merely hired for the job, and had gone
away thinking they had acted quite legitimately.  Harmer's Stores often
engage extra hands, and what would have been easier than for the foreman
to have paid them, and driven the van with the false name upon it to
another part of London.  That was, no doubt, what had really been done.

Max had devoted the greater part of his time to endeavouring to
elucidate the mystery, but had failed ignominiously.  The statement made
by Marion concerning what seemed to be some confession of Maud's greatly
puzzled him.  His well-beloved was loyal to her friend, and would not
betray her.  Times without number he had reverted to the question, but
she always evaded his questions.

Only a few evenings before, while they were seated at one of the little
tables on the lawn of the Welcome Club at the Earl's Court Exhibition,
of which he was a member, he had again referred to Maud, and asked her,
in the interests of his inquiry, to give him some idea of what she had
stated on that night when they last met.

"I really cannot tell you, Max," was her reply, as she lifted her eyes
to his in the dim light shed by the coloured lamps with which the place
was illuminated.  "Have I not already told you of the promise I gave
her?  You surely do not wish me to break it!  Would it be fair, or just?
I'm sure you, who are always loyal to a woman, would never wish me to
mention what she told me."

"Of course.  If it is anything against her reputation--her honour--then
it is certainly best left unsaid," he replied quickly.  "Only--well, I--
I thought, perhaps, it might give us a clue to the motive of their
unaccountable flight."

"Perhaps it might," she admitted; "and yet I cannot tell you."

"Does Charlie know?  Would he tell me, do you think?"

"I don't think Charlie knows.  At any rate, she would not tell him.  If
he does know, it must be through some other source."

"And you anticipate that what Maud told you had some connection with
their sudden disappearance?" he asked, looking steadfastly into the face
of the woman he dearly loved.

"I've already told you so."

"But when you parted from her that night, did you believe that you would
not meet her again?"

She was silent, looking straight before her at the crowd of idlers
circulating around the illuminated bandstand and enjoying the music and
the cool air after the stifling London day.

At last she spoke, saying in a low, rather strained voice:

"I can hardly answer that question.  Had I suspected anything unusual I
think I should have mentioned my apprehension to you."

"Yes, I feel sure you would have done, dearest," he declared.  "I quite
see the difficulty of your present position.  And you understand, I'm
quite sure, how anxious I feel regarding the safety of the doctor, who
was such a dear friend of mine."

"But why are you so anxious, Max?" she asked.

"Because if--well, if there had not been foul play, I should have heard
from the doctor before this!" he said seriously.

"Foul play?" she gasped, starting forward.  "Do you suspect some--some
tragedy, then?"

"Yes, Marion," was his low, earnest reply.  "I do."

"But why?" she queried.  "Remember that the doctor was a diplomat and
statesman.  In Servia politics are very complex, as they are, I'm told,
in every young nation.  Our own English history was a strange and
exciting one when we were the present age of Servia.  The people killed
King Alexander, it is true; but did we not kill King Charles?"

"Then you think that some political undercurrent is responsible for this
disappearance?" he suggested.

"That has more than once crossed my mind."

"Yet would he not have sent word to me in secret?"

"No.  He might fear spies.  You yourself have told me how secret agents
swarm in the Balkan countries, and that espionage is as bad there as in
Russia."

"But we are in London--not in Servia."

"There are surely secret agents of the Servian Opposition party here in
London!" she said.  "You were telling me something about them once--some
facts which the doctor had revealed to you."

"Yes, I remember," he remarked thoughtfully, feeling that in her
argument there was much truth.  "Yet I have a kind of intuition of the
occurrence of some tragedy, Marion," he added, recollecting how her
brother had stolen in secret from that denuded house.

"Well, I think, dear, that your fears are quite groundless," she
declared.  "I know how the affair is worrying you, and how much you
respected the dear old doctor.  But, if I were you, I would wait in
patience.  He will surely send you word some day from some remote corner
of the earth.  Suppose he had sailed for India, South America, or South
Africa, for instance?  There would have been no time for him to write to
you from his hiding-place."

"Then he is in hiding--eh?" asked Max, eager to seize on any word of,
hers that might afford a clue to the strange statement of Maud.

"He may be."

"Is that your opinion?"

"I suspect as much."

"Then you do not believe there has been a tragedy?"

"I believe only in what I know," replied the girl with wisdom.

"And you know there has not been a tragedy?"

"Ah! no.  There you are quite mistaken.  I have no knowledge
whatsoever."

"Only surmise?"

"Only surmise."

"Based upon what Maud told you--eh?" he asked at last, bringing the
conversation to the point.

"What Maud told me has nothing whatever to do with my surmise," was her
quick reply.  "It is a surmise, pure and simple."

"And you have no foundation of fact for it?"

"None, dear."

Max was disappointed.  He sat smoking, staring straight before him.  At
the tables around, beneath the trees, well-dressed people were chatting
and laughing in the dim light, while the military band opposite played
the newest waltz.  But he heard it not.  He was only thinking of how he
could clear up the mystery of the strange disappearance of his dearest
friend.  He glanced at the soft face of the sweet girl at his side, that
was so full of affection and yet so sphinx-like.

She would tell him nothing.  Again and again she had refused to betray
the confidence of her friend.

For the thousandth time he reflected upon that curious and startling
incident which he had seen with his own eyes in Cromwell Road, and of
the inexplicable discovery he had made.  He had not met Rolfe.  That he
should keep away from him was, in itself, suspicious.  Without a doubt
he knew the truth.

Max wondered whether Charlie had told his sister anything--whether he
had told her the truth, and the reason of her determination not to speak
was not to incriminate him.  He knew in what strong affection she held
her brother--how she always tried to shield his faults and magnify his
virtues.  Yet was it not only what might be very naturally supposed that
she would do?  Charlie was always very good to her.  To him, she owed
practically everything.

And so he pondered, smoking in silence while the band played and the
after-dinner idlers gossiped and flirted on that dimly-lit lawn.  He
pondered when later on he took her to Oxford Street by the "tube," and
saw her to the corner of the street in which Cunnington's barracks were
situated, and he pondered as he drove along Piccadilly to the
Traveller's to have a final drink before going home.

Next morning, about eleven, he was in his pleasant bachelor sitting-room
in Dover Street going over some accounts from his factor up in Scotland,
when the door opened and Charlie Rolfe entered, exclaiming in his usual
hearty way:

"Hulloa, Max, old chap, how are you?"

Barclay looked up in utter surprise.  The visit was entirely unexpected,
and so intimate a friend was Rolfe that he always entered unannounced.

In a moment, however, he recovered himself.

"Why, Charlie," he exclaimed, motioning him to a low easy-chair on the
other side of the fireplace, "you're quite a stranger.  Where have you
been all this long time?"

"Oh!  I thought you knew through Marion.  I've been up in Glasgow.  Had
a lot of worries at the works--labour trouble and all that sort of
thing," he replied.  "Those Scotch workmen are utterly incorrigible, but
I must say that it's due to agitators from our side of the border."

"Yes; I saw something in the papers the other day about an impending
strike.  Have a cigar?" and he pushed the box towards his friend.

"There would have been a strike if the old man hadn't put his foot down.
The men held a meeting and reconsidered their position.  It's well for
them they did, otherwise I had orders to close down the whole works for
six months--or for a year, if need be."

"But you'd have lost very heavily, wouldn't you?"

"Lost?  I should rather think so.  We should have had to pay damages for
breach of contract with the Italian railways to the tune of a nice round
sum.  But what does it matter to the guv'nor.  When he takes a stand
against what he calls the tyranny of labour he doesn't count the cost."

"Well," sighed Max, looking across at Marion's brother, "it's rather
nice to be in such a position, and yet--"

"And yet it isn't all honey to be in his shoes--eh?  No, Max, it isn't,"
he said.  "I know more about old Sam than most men, and I tell you I'd
rather be as I am than stifled by wealth as he is.  He's a millionaire
in gold, but a pauper in happiness."

"I can't help thinking that his unhappiness must, in a great measure, be
due to himself," Max remarked, wondering why Charlie had visited him
after this length of time.  "I think if I had his money I should try and
get some little enjoyment out of it.  Other wealthy men have yachts, or
motor cars, or other hobbies.  Why doesn't he?"

"Because he doesn't care for sport.  He told me once that in his younger
days abroad he was as keen a sportsman as anybody.  But now-a-days he's
too old for it, and prefers his armchair."

"And yet he isn't a very old man, is he?"

"Sometimes wealth rejuvenates a man, but more often the worry of it ages
him prematurely," Rolfe remarked.  "I only got back from Glasgow again
last night, and I thought I'd look in and see you.  Seen Marion lately?"

"I was with her at Earl's Court last night.  She's all right."

Then a silence fell between the pair.  Rolfe lit the cigar he had been
slowly twisting between his fingers.  Max looked furtively into his
friend's face, trying to read what secret thought lay behind.  Charlie,
however, preserved his usual easy, nonchalant air as he leaned back in
his chair, his weed between his teeth and his hands clasped behind his
head.

"Look here, Charlie," Max exclaimed at last, in a tone of confidence.
"I want to ask you something."

The other started visibly, and his cheeks went just a trifle paler.

"Well, go on, old chap."  He laughed uneasily.  "What is it?"  And then
he held his breath.

"It's about old Statham."

"About old Statham!" the other echoed, breathing freely again.

"Yes.  Do you know that there are going about London a lot of queer
stories regarding that house of his in Park Lane--I mean a lot more
stories."

"More stories!" laughed the private secretary.  "Well, what are people
saying now?"

"Oh, all sorts of weird and ridiculous thing."

"What is one of them?  I'm interested, for they never tell me anything."

"Because they know you to be connected with the place," Max remarked.
"Well, just now there are about a dozen different tales going the
rounds, and all sorts of hints against the old man."

"Set about by those with whom he has refused to associate--eh?"

"Probably concocted by spiteful gossips, I should think.  Some of them
bear upon the face of them their own refutation.  For instance, I've
heard that the reason lights are seen upstairs is because there's a
mysterious Mrs Statham and her family living there in secret.  Nobody
has seen them, and they never go out."

"Oh!  And what reason is given for that?"

"Because they say she's a Turkish woman, and that he still keeps her
secluded as she has been ever since a child.  The story goes that she's
a very beautiful woman, daughter of one of the most powerful Pashas in
Constantinople, who escaped from her mother's harem and got away over
the frontier into Bulgaria, where Statham joined her, and they were
married in Paris."

Rolfe laughed aloud.  The idea of old Sam being an actor in such a
love-romance was distinctly amusing.

"They call him Statham Pasha, I suppose!  Well, really, it is the very
latest, just as though there may not be lights upstairs when the old man
goes to bed."

"Of course," said Max.  "But the fact that the old man refuses to allow
anybody in the house has given rise to all these stories.  You really
ought to tell him."

"What shall I tell him?  Is there any other gossip?"

"Yes," replied Max, looking the secretary straight in the face in
suspicion that he knew more about the mysteries of that house than he
really did.  "There's another strange story, which I heard two or three
days ago, to the effect that one night recently a person was seen to go
there secretly, being admitted at once.  Then, after the lapse of an
hour or so, old Levi came forth, signalled to a four-wheeled cab which
was apparently loitering about on the chance of a fare.  Then from out
of the house was carried a long, heavy box, which was placed on the cab
and driven away to an unknown destination."

"A box!" gasped Rolfe in surprise, bending quickly across to the
speaker.  "What do you mean--what do you suggest?"

"Well the natural suggestion is that the body of the midnight visitor
was within that box?"

Charlie Rolfe did not reply.  He sat staring open-mouthed, as though
Max's story had supplied the missing link in a chain of suspicions which
had for a long time existed in his mind--as though he now knew the
terrible and astounding truth.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

TRUTH OR UNTRUTH.

The two men exchanged glances, each suspicious of the other.

Max tried to imagine the motive of his friend's visit, while Rolfe, on
his part, was undecided as to the extent of the other's knowledge.  To
come there and boldly face Max had cost him a good many qualms.  At one
moment he felt certain that Max suspected, but at the next he laughed at
his own fears, and declared himself to be a chicken-hearted fool.  And
so days had gone on until, unable to stand it further, he had at last
resolved to call at Dover Street.

"You're quite a stranger, Charlie," Max remarked at last.  "I haven't
seen you since the doctor disappeared so mysteriously."

He watched Rolfe's face as he spoke, yet save a very slight flush upon
the cheeks he was in no way perturbed.

"Well, I've been away nearly the whole time," was the other's reply.
"The whole affair is most curious."

"And haven't you seen Maud since?"

He hesitated slightly, and in that hesitation Max detected falsehood.

"No," was his reply.

"What?  And haven't you endeavoured to find out her whereabouts?" cried
Max, staring at him.  "If Marion had disappeared, I think I should have
left no stone unturned in order to discover the truth."

"I have tried to solve the mystery, and failed," was his rather lame
response.

"But where are they--where can they be?  It's most extraordinary that
the doctor should not send me word in confidence of their secret
hiding-place.  I was his most intimate friend."

"Well," he said.  "The fact is that until this moment I believed you
were well aware of their whereabouts, but could not, in face of your
friendship, betray them."

Max looked him straight in the face.  Was he lying?

Such a statement was, indeed, ingenious, to say the least.  Yet how,
recollecting that he had left the empty house in secret, could he
believe that Max knew the truth and was concealing it?  Was it really
possible that he was in ignorance?  Barclay thought.  Had he gone to
Cromwell Road expecting to find the doctor at home, just as he had done?
If he had, then why had he crept out of the place and made his escape
so hurriedly?

Again, he recollected the result of the search in company with the man
from Harmer's, and the finding of the open safe.  Somebody had been
there after his visit; somebody who had robbed the safe!  That person
must have been aware of the departure of the doctor.  Who was it if not
the man seated there before him?

"Well, Rolfe," Max remarked at last.  "You're quite mistaken.  I haven't
the slightest notion of where they are.  I've done my best to try and
discover some clue to the direction of their flight, but all in vain.
The more I have probed the affair, the more extraordinary and more
mystifying has it become."

"What have you discovered?" asked Charlie quickly.

"Several strange things.  First, I have found that the furniture was
removed in vans painted with the name of Harmer's Stores, but they were
not Harmer's vans.  The household goods were spirited away that night,
nobody knows whither."

"And with them the Doctor and Maud."

"Exactly.  But--well, tell me the truth, Charlie.  Have you had no
message of whatever sort from Maud?"

"None," he replied, his face full of pale anxiety.

"But, my dear fellow she loved you, did she not?  It was impossible for
her to conceal it."

"Yes, I know.  That's why I can't make it out at all.  I sometimes think
that--"

"That what?"

"Well, that there's been foul play, Max," he said hoarsely.  "You know
what the people of those Balkan countries are--so many political
conspirators in every walk of life.  And the doctor was such a prominent
politician in Servia."

Was he telling an untruth?  If so, he was a marvellous actor.

"Then you declare that you have received no word from either Maud or the
Doctor."

"I have heard nothing from them."

"But, Charlie," he said slowly, "has it not struck you that Marion knows
something--that if she liked she could furnish us with a clue to the
solution of the mysterious affair?"

"Yes," he said, his face brightening at once.  "How curious!  That
thought struck me also.  She knows something, evidently, but refuses to
say a word."

"Because she is Maud's most intimate friend."

"Yet she ought, merely to set my mind at rest.  She knows how fondly I
love Maud."

"What has she told you?"

"She's merely urged me to be patient.  That's all very well, because I
feel sure that if Maud were allowed to do so she would write to me."

"Her father may prevent her.  He does not write to me, remember," said
Max.

"I can't understand Marion; she is so very mysterious over it all.  Each
time I've seen her I've tried to get the truth from her, but all in
vain," Rolfe declared.  "My own idea is that on the night in question,
when they went together to Queen's Hall, Maud told Marion something--
something that is a secret."

Max pondered.  His friend's explanation tallied exactly with his own
theories; but the point still remained whether or not there had been
foul play.

"But why doesn't the Doctor send me word of his own safety?" asked
Barclay.  "I was with him only a few hours before, smoking and chatting.
He surely knew then of his impending flight.  It had all been most
ingeniously and cleverly arranged."

"No doubt.  When I knew of it I was absolutely staggered," Rolfe said.

It was curious, thought his friend, that he did not admit visiting the
house after the furniture had been removed.

"I thought you left at nine that night to go to Belgrade.  Marion told
me you had gone," Max remarked.

"Yes.  I had intended to go, but I unfortunately missed my train.  The
next day the old gentleman sent somebody else, as he wanted me at home
to look after affairs up in Glasgow."

"And how did you first know of Maud's disappearance?" asked Max,
thinking to upset his calm demeanour.

"I called at the house," he replied, vouchsafing no further fact.

"And after that?"  Max inquired, recollecting that tell-tale stain upon
the woman's bodice.

"I made inquiries in a number of likely quarters, without result."

"And what's your theory?"  Max asked, looking him straight in the face,
now undecided whether he was lying or not.

"Theory?  Well, my dear fellow, I haven't any.  I'd like to hear yours.
The doctor and his daughter have suddenly disappeared, as though the
earth has swallowed them, and they've not left the least trace behind.
What do you believe the real truth to be?"

"At present I'm unable to form any actual theory," his friend replied.
"There has either been foul play, or else they are in hiding because of
some act of political vengeance which they fear.  That not a word has
come from either tends to support the theory of foul play.  Yet if there
has been a secret tragedy, why should the furniture have been made to
disappear as well as themselves?"  Then, after a pause, he fixed his
eyes suspiciously upon Charlie, and added, "I wonder if the Doctor kept
any valuables or securities that thieves might covet in his house?"

Rolfe shrugged his shoulders.  Mention of that point in no way disturbed
him.

"I have never heard Maud speak of her father having any valuable
possessions there," he said simply.

"But he may have done so, and a theft may have been committed!"

"Of course.  But the whole affair from beginning to end is most
puzzling.  I wonder the papers didn't get hold of it.  They could have
concocted lots of theories if it had become known."

"And now, at this lapse of time, the Press could not mention it for fear
of libel.  They'll think that the Doctor had done a moonlight flit,
instead of paying his rent."

"It certainly looks like that," remarked Max with a laugh.  "But I only
wish we could induce Marion to tell us all she knows."

Charlie sighed.

"Yes," he said.  "I only wish she would say something.  But she refuses
absolutely, and so we're left entirely in the dark."

"Well, all I can say is, that the Doctor would never wilfully leave me
in ignorance of his whereabouts, especially at this moment.  We have
certain business matters together involving a probable gain of a good
round sum.  Therefore, it was surely to his interest to keep me in touch
with him!"  Max declared.

The man before him was silent.

Was it possible that he had misjudged him?  Was he lying; or had he
really gone to Cromwell Road in search of the Doctor and found the house
untenanted and empty?

"It is a complete mystery," was all that Rolfe could say.

"Do you know, Charlie, a curious thought struck me the other day, and I
mention it to you in all confidence.  It may be absurd--but--well,
somehow I can't get it out of my head."

"And what is it?" asked his friend with an eagerness just a little
unusual.

Max paused.  Should he speak?  Or should he preserve silence?  The
mystery now held him bewildered.  What had become of the dear old Doctor
and the pretty girl with the tiny wisp of hair straying across her white
brow?  Yes.  He would speak the vague impression that had, of late, been
uppermost in his mind.

"Well," he said, "old Statham has financial interests in Servia, has he
not?"

"Certainly.  Quite a number.  He floated their loan a few years ago."

"And has it not struck you then that he and the Doctor might be
acquainted?"

"They were strangers," he exclaimed quickly, darting a strange look
across at Barclay.

Max was somewhat surprised at the vehement and decisive nature of
Charlie's declaration.

"And Maud never met the old fellow?"

"Never--to my knowledge."

"Statham has a number of friends and acquaintances whom you do not know.
The Doctor may have been one of them."

"Oh, Sam has very few secrets from me.  I am his confidential
secretary," was the other's rather cold response.

"I know--I know.  But would it not be to Statham's interest to be on
friendly terms with such a powerful factor in the Servian political
world as Dr Petrovitch?"

"Well, it might.  But you know how independent he is.  He never goes
into society, and has no personal friends.  He's utterly alone in the
world--the loneliest man in London."

"Then let us go a trifle further," said Max at last.  "Answer me one
question.  Is it or is it not, a fact that you were at the house in
Cromwell Road on the night of--of their disappearance?"

Rolfe's countenance changed in an instant.  His lips went white.

"Why?" he faltered--"what do you mean to imply?--why--?"

"Because, Rolfe," the other said in a hard, determined voice, "because I
saw you there--saw you with my own eyes!"

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

TWO MEN AND A WOMAN.

The face of Charlie Rolfe went pale as death.

He was in doubt, and uncertain as to how much, or how little, was known
by this man who loved his sister.

"I saw you there, Rolfe, with my own eyes," repeated Max, looking
straight into his face.

He tried to speak.  What could he say?  For an instant his tongue clave
to the roof of his mouth.

"I--I don't quite understand you," he faltered.  "What do you mean?"

"Simply that I saw you at the Doctor's house on the night of their
disappearance."

"My dear fellow," he laughed, in a moment, perfectly cool, "you must
have been mistaken.  You actually say you saw me?"

"Most certainly I did," declared Max, his eyes still upon his friend.

"Then all I can say is that you saw somebody who resembled me.  Tell me
exactly what you did see."

Max was for a moment silent.  He never expected that Rolfe would flatly
deny his presence there.  This very fact had increased his suspicions a
hundredfold.

"Well, the only person I saw, Charlie, was you yourself--leaving the
house.  That's all."

"Somebody who closely resembled me, I expect."

"Then you deny having been at the house that evening?" asked Max in
great surprise.

"Why, of course I do.  You're absolutely mistaken, old chap," was
Charlie's response.  "Of course, I can quite see how this must have
puzzled you.  But what now arises in my mind is whether someone has not
endeavoured to personate me.  It seems very much as though they have.
You say that I left the house.  When?"

"After the removal.  You were in the empty house, which you left
secretly."

"And you were there also, then?" he asked.

"Of course.  I called, ignorant that they had left."  Charlie Rolfe did
not speak for several moments.

"Well," he exclaimed at last, "it seems that somebody has been
impersonating me.  I certainly was not there."

"Why should they impersonate you?"

"Who knows?  Is there not mystery in the whole affair?"

"But if somebody went there dressed to resemble you, there must have
been a motive in their visit," Max said.

"Well, old fellow, as you know, I have kept away from the house of
late--at Maud's request.  She feared that her father did not approve of
my too frequent visits."

"And so you met her at dusk in the quiet streets about Nevern Square and
the adjacent thoroughfares?"

"Certainly.  I told you so.  I made no secret of it to you.  Why should
I?"

"Then why make a secret about your visit to the house on that particular
evening?"

"I don't make any secret of it," he protested.  "As I've already told
you, I was not there."

"But you didn't leave Charing Cross, as you made people believe you had
done.  You didn't even go to the station," returned Max.

"Certainly I did not."

"You had no intention, when you saw Marion at Cunnington's, of leaving
at all.  Come, admit that."

"You are quite right.  I did not intend to leave London."

"But Statham had given you orders to go."

"I do not always obey his orders when it is to his own interest that I
should disregard them," he replied enigmatically.

"Then you had a reason for not going to Servia?"

"I had--a very strong one."

"Connected with Maud Petrovitch?"

"In no way whatever.  It was a purely personal motive."

"And you thought fit to disregard Statham's injunctions in order to
attend to your own private business!"

"It was his business, as well as mine," declared Charlie, who, after a
pause, asked: "Now tell me, Max, why are you cross-examining me like a
criminal lawyer?  What do you suspect me of?"

"Well--shall I be frank?"

"Certainly.  We are old enough friends for that."

"Then I'm sorry to say, Charlie, that I suspect you of telling a lie."

"Lies are permissible in certain cases--for instance, where a woman's
honour is at stake," he replied, fixing his eyes steadily upon those of
his friend.

"Then you admit that what you have just told me is not the truth?"

"I admit nothing.  I only repeat that I was not in Cromwell Road on the
evening in question."

"But my eyes don't deceive me, man!  I saw your face, remember."

"If it was actually my face, it was not in Cromwell Road.  That's quite
certain?" laughed old Statham's secretary.  "But it was your face."

"It was, I repeat, somebody who resembled me," he declared.  "But you
haven't told me what the person was doing in the empty house."

"That's just what I don't know," Barclay replied.  "I only know this:
When I entered that night I saw nothing of a safe let into the wall.
But on going there the next day the safe stood revealed, the door was
open, and it was empty."

"And so you charge me with being a thief!" cried Rolfe, his cheek
flushing.

"Not at all.  You asked me for the truth, and I've told you."

"Well, it's evident that you suspect me of sneaking into the house,
breaking open the Doctor's safe, and taking the contents," he said
plainly, annoyed.

"The Doctor may have returned himself in secret," Max replied.  "But
such could hardly be the case, for the door had been blown open by
explosives."

"That would have created a noise," Charlie remarked quickly.  "Shows
that whoever did it was a blunderer."

"Exactly.  That's just my opinion.  What I want to establish is the
motive for the secret visit, and who made it."

"Well, I can assure you that I'm in entire ignorance of the existence of
any safe in the Doctor's house."

"And so was I.  It was concealed by the furniture until my second visit,
on the following morning."

"Curious," Rolfe said.  "Very curious indeed.  The whole thing is most
remarkable--especially how both father and daughter got away without
leaving the least trace of their flight."

"Then you don't anticipate foul play?"  Max asked quickly.

"Why should one?"

"The Doctor had a good many political enemies."

"We all have enemies.  Who has not?  But they don't come and murder one
and take away one's household goods."

"Then I am to take it that it was not you I saw at Cromwell Road,
Charlie?" asked his friend in deep earnestness, at the same time filled
with suspicion.  He felt that his eyes could not deceive him.

"In all seriousness," was the other's reply.  "I was not there.  This
personation of myself shows that there was some very clever and
deeply-laid scheme."

"But you've just declared that a falsehood was permissible where a
woman's honour was concerned?"

"Well, and will not every man with a sense of honour towards a woman
hold the same opinion?  You yourself, Max, for instance, are not the man
to give a woman away?"

"I know!  I know--only--"

"Only what?  Surely you do not disagree with me!"

"In a sense I don't, but I'm anxious to clear up this matter as far as
you yourself are concerned."

Rolfe saw that he had shaken his friend's fixed belief that he had seen
him in Cromwell Road.  Max was now debating in his mind whether he had
not suspected Charlie unjustly.  It is so easy to suspect, and so
difficult to satisfy one's self of the actual truth.  The mind is, alas!
too apt to receive ill-formed impressions contrary to fact.

"It is already cleared up," Rolfe answered without hesitation.  "I was
not there.  You were entirely mistaken.  Besides, my dear chap, why
should I go there when I had been particularly asked by Maud not to
visit the house?"

"When did she ask you?"

"Only the night before.  That very fact is, in itself, curious.  She
urged me that whatever might occur, I was not to go to the house."

"Then she anticipated something--eh?"

"It seems as though she did."

"And she told Marion something on the night when she and her father
disappeared."

"I know."

"You know what she told her?"

"No.  Marion refuses to tell me, I wish I could induce her to speak.
Marion knows the truth--that's my firm belief."

"And mine also."

"The two girls have some secret in common," Rolfe said.  "Can't you get
Marion to tell you?"

"She refuses.  I've asked her half a dozen times already."

"I wonder why!  There must be some reason."

"Of course there is.  She is loyal to her friend.  But tell me honestly,
Charlie.  Do you know the Doctor's whereabouts?"

"I tell you honestly that I haven't the slightest idea.  The affair is
just as great a mystery to me as to you."

"But why have you kept away from me till to-day?"  Barclay asked.  "It
isn't like you."

"Well," answered Rolfe, with a slight hesitation, "to tell you the
truth, because I thought your manner had rather changed towards me of
late."

"Why, my dear fellow, I'm sure it never has."

"But you suspected me of being in that house on the night of the
disappearance!"

"Of course, because I saw you."

"Because you thought you saw me," Charlie said, correcting him.  "You
surely would not misjudge me for that."

"No.  But your theory regarding falsehoods has, I must admit, caused
some suspicion in my mind."

"Of what?"

"Well, of prevaricating in order to shield a woman--Maud it may be."

"I am not shielding her!" he declared.  "There is nothing to shield.  I
love her very dearly indeed, and she loves me devotedly in return.
Cannot you imagine, Max, my perturbed state of mind now that she has
disappeared without a word?"

"Has she sent you no secret message of her safety?"  Max asked,
seriously.

"Not a word."

"And you do not know, then, if she has not met with foul play?"

"I don't.  That's just it!  Sometimes--" And he rose from his chair and
paced the room in agony of mind.  "Sometimes--I--I feel as if I shall go
mad.  I love her--just as you love Marion!  Sometimes I feel assured of
her safety--that she and her father have been compelled to disappear for
political or other reasons--and then at others a horrible idea haunts me
that my love may be dead--the victim of some vile, treacherous plot to
take from me all that has made my life worth living!"

"Stop!" cried Max, starting to his feet and facing him.  "You love her--
eh?"

"Better--ah! better than my own life!" he cried in deep earnestness, his
troubled face being an index of his mind.

"Then--then upon her honour--the honour of the woman you love--swear to
me that you have spoken the truth!"

He looked into his friend's eyes for a moment.  Then he answered:

"I swear, Max!  I swear by my love for Maud that I have spoken the
truth!"

And Barclay stood silent--so puzzled as to be unable to utter a word.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

WHICH PUTS A SERIOUS QUESTION.

At last Max spoke, slowly and with great deliberation.

"And you declare yourself as ignorant as I am myself of their
whereabouts?"

"I do," was Rolfe's response.  Then after a second's hesitation he added
in a changed voice: "I really think, Max, that you are scarcely treating
me fairly in this matter.  Sorely it is in my interests to discover the
whereabouts of Maud!  I have done my best."

"Well?"

"And I've failed to discover any clue whatever--except one--that--"

And he broke off, without finishing his sentence.

"What have you discovered?  Tell me.  Be frank with me."

"I've not yet established whether it is a real clue, or whether a mere
false surmise.  When I have, I will tell you."

"But cannot we join forces in endeavouring to solve the problem?"  Max
suggested, his suspicion of his friend now removed.

"That is exactly what I would wish.  But how shall we begin?  Where
shall we commence?" asked Rolfe.

"The truth that it was not you whom I saw leaving the house in Cromwell
Road adds fresh mystery to the already astounding circumstance," Max
declared.  "The man who so closely resembled you was purposely made up
to be mistaken for you.  There was some strong motive for this.  What do
you suggest it could be?"

"To implicate me!  But in what?"

The thought of that blood-stained bodice ever haunted Max.  It was on
the tip of his tongue to reveal his discovery to his friend, yet on
second thoughts he resolved to at present retain his secret.  He had
withheld it from the police, therefore he was perfectly justified in
withholding it from Charlie.

The flat denial of the latter regarding his visit to Cromwell Road
caused him deep reflection.  He watched his friend's attitude, and was
compelled to admit within himself that now, at any rate, he was speaking
the truth.

"The only reason for the visit of the man whom I must have mistaken for
yourself, Charlie," he said, "must have been to open that safe."

"Probably so."

Then Max explained, in detail, the position of the safe, and how he had
discovered it being open, and its contents abstracted.

"On your first visit, then, the safe was hidden?"

"Yes.  But when I went in the morning it stood revealed, the door blown
open by some explosive."

"By an enemy of the Doctor's," remarked Charlie.

Max did not reply.  The Doctor's words regarding his friend on the last
occasion they had sat together recurred to him at that moment with a
queer significance.  The Doctor certainly did not like Rolfe.  For what
reason? he wondered.  Why had he taken such a sudden dislike to him?

Hitherto, they had been quite friendly, ever since the well-remembered
meeting at the Villa des Fleurs, in Aix-les-Bains, and the Doctor had
never, to his knowledge, objected to Maud's association with the smart
young fellow whose keen business instincts had commended him to such a
man as old Sam Statham.  The Doctor held no doubt, either secret
knowledge of something detrimental to Rolfe, or else entertained one of
those sudden and unaccountable prejudices which some men form, and which
they are unable to put behind them.

"The one main point we have first to decide, Charlie," he said at last,
standing at the window and gazing thoughtfully down into the narrow
London street, "is whether or not then has been foul play."

Rolfe made no reply, a circumstance which caused him to turn and look
straight into his friend's face.  He saw a change there.

His countenance was blanched; but whether by fear of the loss of the
woman he loved, or by a guilty knowledge, Max knew not.

"Marion can tell us," he answered at last.  "But she refuses."

"You, her brother, can surely obtain the truth from her?"

"Not when you, her lover, fail," Charlie responded, his brows knit
deeply.

"But a moment ago you said you had a clue?"

"I think I have one.  It is only a surmise."

"And in what direction does it trend?"

"Towards foul play," he said hoarsely.

"Political?"

"It may be."

"And were both victims of the plot?"

"I cannot tell.  At present I'm making all the secret inquiries
possible--far afield in a Continental city.  It takes time, care, and
patience.  As soon as I obtain anything tangible, I will tell you.  But
first of all, Max," he added, "I wish to have your assurance that you no
longer suspect me.  I am not your enemy--why should you be mine?"

"I am not, my dear fellow," declared Barclay.  "How can I be the enemy
of Marion's brother?  I was only suspicious.  You would have been the
same in similar circumstances, I'm sure."

"Probably," laughed Charlie.  "Yet what you've told me about the
endeavour to implicate myself in the affair is certainly extraordinary.
I don't see any motive."

"Except that you were known by the conspirators, whoever they are, to be
Maud's lover."

"If so, then they intend, most probably, to bring some false charge
against me.  And--and--"

"And what?" asked Max in some surprise.

"Why, don't you see?" he said hoarsely, staring straight into his
friend's face with a horrified expression as a terrible truth arose
within him.  "Don't you see that you yourself, Max, would become the
principal witness against me!"

Max stood wondering at the other's sudden anticipation of disaster.
What could he dread if this denial of his was the actual truth?

Again he grew suspicious.

"How can I be witness against you if you are innocent of any connection
with the affair?" he queried.

"Because the Doctor's enemies have done this, in order to shield
themselves."

"But if the Doctor is really still alive, what have you to fear?"

"Is he alive?  That is the point."

"Marion gives me to understand that both he and Maud are safe," Max
responded quickly.

The other shook his head dubiously, saying: "If she has told you that,
then it is exactly contrary to what she has given me to understand."

"What?  She has expressed a suspicion of foul play?"

"Yes--more than a suspicion."

"Well--this is certainly strange," Max declared.  "Marion has all along
been trying to allay my fears."

"Because she feared to upset you, perhaps.  With me it is different.
She does not mind my feelings."

"I'm sure she does, Charlie.  She's devoted to you.  And she ought to
be.  Few brothers would do what you have done."

"That's quite outside the question," he said, quickly pacing anxiously
up and down the room.  "She told me distinctly the other day that her
fears were of the worst."

"Ah! if you could only induce her to tell us what Maud confessed to her.
It was a confession--a serious and tragic one, I believe."

"Yes.  It was, no doubt; and if she would only speak we could, I
believe, quickly get at the truth," Rolfe said.  "To me it seems
incredible that the Doctor, your most intimate friend, should not have
found some secret manner by which to communicate with you, and assure
you of his safety."

There was a pause.  Suddenly Max turned to the speaker and exclaimed--

"Tell me, Charlie.  Be perfectly frank with me.  Have you, do you think,
at any time recently given some cause for offence to the Doctor?"

"Why do you ask that?" inquired the other in quick surprise.

"I have reasons for asking.  I'll tell you after you've answered my
question."

"I don't know," he laughed uneasily.  "Some men, and especially
foreigners, are very easily offended."

"But have you offended the Doctor?"

"Perhaps.  A man never knows when he gives unintentional offence."

"Are you aware of having done anything to offend him?"

"No, except that Maud asked me not to visit there so often, as her
father did not approve of it."

"Did she ever tell you that the Doctor had suddenly entertained a
dislike of you?"

"Certainly not.  I always believed that he was very friendly disposed
towards me.  But--well--why do you ask all this?"

"I merely ask for information."

"Of course, but you promised to tell me the reason."

"Well, the fact is this.  On the afternoon prior to their disappearance,
the Doctor expressed feelings towards you that were not exactly
friendly.  It seemed to me that he had formed some extraordinary
prejudice.  Fathers do this often towards the men who love their
daughters, you know.  They are sometimes apt to be over-cautious, with
the result that the girl loses a very good chance of marriage," he
added.  "I've known several similar cases."

"Well," said Charlie thoughtfully, "that's quite new to me.  I had
flattered myself that the Doctor was very well disposed towards me.
This is quite a revelation?"

"Didn't Maud ever tell you?"

"Not a word."

"She feared, of course, to hurt your feelings.  It was quite natural.
She loves you."

"If what we fear be true, you should put your words into the past tense,
Max," was his reply in a hard voice.  Barclay knew that his friend loved
the sweet-faced girl with the stray, unruly wisp of hair which fell
always across her white brow and gave her such a piquante appearance.
And if he loved her so well, was it possible that he could have been
author of, or implicated, in a foul and secret crime?

Recollection of that dress-bodice with the ugly stain still wet upon it
flashed upon him.  Was it not in itself circumstantial evidence that
some terrible crime had been committed?

The man before him denied all knowledge of the disappearance of his
well-beloved, and yet Max, with his own eyes, had seen him slinking from
the house!

Had he spoken the truth, or was he an ingenious liar?

Such was the problem which Max Barclay put to himself--a question which
was the whole crux of the extraordinary situation.  If what Rolfe had
declared was the truth, then the mystery became an enigma beyond
solution.

But if, on the other hand, he was now endeavouring to shield himself
from the shadow of guilt upon him, then at least one fact was rendered
more hideous than the rest.

The question was one--and only one.

Had this man, brother of his own dear Marion, sworn falsely upon what he
had held to be most sacred--his love for Maud?

What was the real and actual truth?

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

IN THE WEB.

It was four o'clock on the following afternoon, dark and threatening
outside, precursory of a thunderstorm.

In that chair in Max's room, where Charlie Rolfe had sat on the previous
morning, was the polished cosmopolitan, Jean Adam, lazily lolling back,
smoking a cigarette.

Max had lunched over at White's, and just come in to find Adam awaiting
him.  The Frenchman had risen and greeted him merrily, took the
proffered Russian cigarette, and they; had settled themselves to chat.

"I've been expecting every day to hear from you," Adam exclaimed at
last.  "When do you propose starting for Constantinople?"

"Well, I've been thinking over the matter, and I've come to the
conclusion that just at present it is impossible for me to leave London.
I have other interests here."

Adam stirred uneasily in his chair.  This reply filled him with chagrin,
yet so clever was he, and such a perfect type of ingenious adventurer,
that he never showed the least trace of surprise.

"Really," he laughed, "that's very unfortunate--for you!"

"Why, for me?"

"Well, the missing of such a chance would be unfortunate, even to a
Rothschild," he said.  "There's hundreds of thousands in the deal, if
you'll only go out with me.  You're not a man of straw.  You can afford
to risk a thousand or two, just as well as I can--even better."

"I would willingly go if it were not for the fact that I find I must
remain in London."

Adam laughed, with just a touch of sarcasm.

"Ah! the lady!  I quite understand, my dear fellow.  The charming young
lady whom I met with you the other night does not wish you to leave her
side--eh?  We have all of us been through that stage of amorous ecstasy.
I have myself, I know that; and if I may tell you with the frankness of
a friend, I've regretted it," he added, holding up his white palms.

"All men do not regret I hope to be the exception," remarked Max
Barclay, pensively watching the smoke from his lips rise to the ceiling.

"Of course.  But is it wise to turn one's back upon Fortune in this
way?" asked Adam, in that insidious manner by which he had entrapped
many a man.  "Review the position calmly.  Here is a project which, by
good luck, has fallen into my hands.  I want somebody to go shares with
me in it.  You are my friend, I like you.  I know you are an upright
man, and I ask you to become my partner in the venture.  Yet you refuse
to do so because--well, merely because a woman's pretty face has
attracted you, and you think that you please her by remaining here in
London!

"Is it not rather foolish in your own interests?  Constantinople is not
the Pole.  A fortnight will suffice for you to get there and back and
clinch the bargain.  Muhil is awaiting us.  I had a wire only yesterday.
Do reconsider the whole question--there's a good fellow."

Max had said nothing about the meeting with Marion.  Therefore he
believed that she had not told her lover.  Adam was reflecting whether
she might not, after all, be a woman to be trusted.  This refusal of
Max's to go out to Turkey interfered seriously with the plans he had
formed.  Yet what those plans actually were he had not even told the
hunchback.  He was a man who took counsel of nobody.  His ingenious
schemes he evolved in his own brain, and carried them into effect by his
own unaided efforts.

The past history of Jean Adam, alias John Adams, had been one of amazing
ups-and-downs and clever chicanery.  He knew that Samuel Statham held
him in awe, and was now playing upon his fears, and gloating over the
success which must inevitably be his whenever he thought fit to deal the
blow.  It would be irresistible and crushing.  He held the millionaire
in his power.  But before he moved forward to strike, he intended that
Max should be induced to go abroad.  And if he went--well, when he
thought of his victim's departure his small, near-set eyes gleamed, and
about the corners of his mouth there played an expression of evil.

"My decision does not require any reconsideration," said the young
fellow, after a pause.  "I shall remain in London."

"And lose the chance of a lifetime--eh?" exclaimed Adam, as though
perfectly unconcerned.

"I have some very important private matters to attend to."

"I, too, used to have when I was your age."

"They do not concern the lady," Max said quickly.  "It is purely a
personal matter."

"Of business?  Why, you'd make as much in an hour over this Railway
business as you'd make in twenty years here in London," Adam declared.
"Besides, you want a change.  Come out to the Bosphorus.  It's charming
beside the Sweet Waters."

"All sounds very delightful; but even though I may let the chance of a
fortune slip through my fingers, I cannot leave London at present."

"But why?"

"A purely private matter," was his reply, for he did not wish to tell
this man anything concerning the strange disappearance of the Doctor and
his grave suspicions of Charlie Rolfe.  "I can tell you nothing more
than that."

"Well, I'm sure the lady, if she knew that it was in your interests to
go to Turkey, would urge you to go," declared Adam.  "She would never
keep you here if she knew that you could pull off such a deal as I have
put before you."

"She does know."

"Oh!  And what does she say?"

"She suggested that I should go with you."

"Then why not come?"

"Because, as I've already told you, it is impossible.  I am kept in
London by something which concerns the welfare of a very dear friend,"
Max answered.  "You must put it before somebody else.  I suppose the
affair cannot wait?"

"I don't want to put it before anybody else.  If we do business, I want
you and I to share the profits."

"Very good of you, I'm sure; but at present I am quite unable to leave
London."

Max was wondering for the first time why this man was so pressing.  If
the thing was a really good one--as it undoubtedly was, according to the
friend he had consulted in the City--then there could not be any lack of
persons ready to go into the venture.  Was it sheer luck that had led
this man Adam to offer to take him into it, or had the man some ulterior
motive?  Max Barclay was no fool.  He had sown his wild oats in London,
and knew the ways of men.  He had met many a city shark, and had been
the poorer in pocket through the meeting.  But about this man Adam was
something which had always fascinated him.  The pair had been drawn
together by some indescribable but mutual attraction, and the concession
by the Sultan which must result in great profits was now within his
reach.  Nevertheless, he felt that in the present circumstances it was
impossible to leave London.  Before doing so he was desirous of solving
the problem of the disappearance of Doctor Petrovitch, and clearing up
the question of whether or not there had been foul play.

Rolfe's denial of the previous day had complicated matters even further.
He was convinced, now that he had reflected calmly, that his friend was
concealing something from him--some fact which had an important bearing
upon the astounding affair.

Was Charlie playing a straight game?  After long consideration he had
come again to the conclusion that he was not!

In his ear was the voice of the tempter Jean Adam.  Fortune awaited him
in that sunlit city of white domes and minarets beside the Bosphorus--
the city of veiled women and of mystery he had always hoped to visit.
Would he not spare fourteen days, travel there, and obtain it?

It was a great temptation.  The concession for that railway would indeed
have been a temptation to any man.  Did not the late Baron Hirsch lay
the foundation of his huge fortune by a similar irade of his Majesty the
Sultan?

The man seated in the deep armchair with the cigarette between his lips
looked at his victim through his half-closed eyes, as a snake watches
the bird he fascinates.

Jean Adam was an excellent judge of human nature.  He had placed there a
bait which could not fail to attract, if not to-day, then to-morrow--or
the next day.  He had gauged Max Barclay with a precision only given to
those who live upon their wits.

To every rule there are, of course, exceptions.  Every man who lives
upon his wits is not altogether bad.  Curious though it may be, there
are many adventurers to be met with in every capital in Europe, who,
though utterly unscrupulous, have in their nature one point of the most
scrupulous honour--one point which redeems them from being classed as
utter blackguards.

Many a man, who will stick at nothing where money can be made, is loyal,
honest, and upright towards a woman; while another will with one hand
swindle the wealthy, and with the other give charity to the poor.  Few
men, indeed, are altogether bad.  Yet when they are, they are, alas!
outsiders indeed.

Adam was a man who had no compunction where men were concerned, and very
little when a woman stood in his way.  His own adventures would have
made one of the most interesting volumes ever written.  Full of
ingenuity and tact, fearless when it came to facing exposure, and
light-hearted whenever the world smiled upon him, he was a marvellous
admixture of good fellow and scoundrel.

He knew that his clever story had fascinated the man before him, and
that it was only a question of time before he would fall into the net so
cleverly spread.

"When do you anticipate you could go East--that is, providing I can get
the matter postponed?" asked Adam at last, as he placed his cigarette
end in the ash-tray.

"I can't give you a date," replied Max.  "It is quite uncertain.  Why
not go to somebody else?"

"I tell you I have no desire to do so, my dear friend," was the
Frenchman's reply.  "I like you.  That is why I placed the business
before you.  I know, of course, there are a thousand men in the City who
would only jump at this chance of such a big thing."

"Then why not go to them?" repeated Max, a little surprised and yet a
little flattered.

"As I have told you, I would rather take you into partnership.  We have
already decided to do the thing on a sound business basis.  Indeed, I
went to my lawyers only yesterday and gave orders for the agreement to
be drawn up between us.  You'll receive it to-night or to-morrow."

"Well," replied Max with some hesitation, "if it is to be done, it must
be done later.  At present I cannot get away.  My place is in London."

"Beside the lady to whom you are so devoted, eh?" the Frenchman laughed.

Max was irritated by the man's veiled sarcasm.

"No.  Because I have a duty to perform towards a friend, and even the
temptation of a fortune shall not cause me to neglect it."

"A friend.  Whom?"

"The matter is my own affair.  It has nothing to do with our business,"
was Max's rather sharp response.

"Very well," said the other, quite unruffled.  "I can only regret.  I
will wire to-night to Muhil Pasha, and endeavour to obtain a
postponement of the agreement."

"As you wish," Max said, still angered at this importation of the woman
he loved into the discussion.  "I may as well say that it is quite
immaterial."

"To you it may be so.  But I am not rich like yourself," the other said.
"I have to obtain my income where I can by honest means, and this is a
chance which I do not intend to lose.  I look to you--I hold you to your
promise, Barclay--to assist me."

"I do not intend to break my promise.  I merely say that I cannot go out
to Turkey at once."

"But you will come--you will promise that in a few days--in a week--or
when you have finished this mysterious duty to your friend, that you
will come with me?" he urged.  "Come, give me your hand.  I don't want
to approach anybody else."

"Well, if you really wish it," Max replied, and he gave the tempter his
hand in pledge.

When, a few seconds later, Jean Adam turned to light a fresh cigarette
there was upon his thin lips a smile--a sinister smile of triumph.

Max Barclay had played dice with the Devil, and lost.  He had, in his
ignorance of the net spread about him, in that moment pledged his own
honour.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

OLD SAM HAS A VISITOR.

It was past midnight.

At eleven o'clock old Sam Statham had descended from the mysterious
upper regions, emerged from the green baize door upon the stairs, which
concealed another white-enamelled door--a door of iron, and, passing
down to the study, had switched on the electric light, thrown himself
wearily into an armchair, and lit a cigar.

Upon his grey, drawn countenance was a serious apprehensive look, as of
a man who anticipated serious trouble, and who was trying in vain to
brave himself up to face it.  For nearly half an hour he had smoked on
alone, now and then muttering to himself, his bony fingers clenched as
though anticipating revenge.  The big room was so silent at that hour
that a pin if dropped might have been heard.  Only the clock ticked on
solemnly, and striking the half-hour upon its silvery bell.

The old millionaire who, on passing through that baize-covered door, had
locked the inner door so carefully after him, seemed strangely agitated.
So apprehensive was he that Levi, entering some time afterwards, said
in his sharp, brusque manner:

"I thought you had retired long ago.  What's the matter?"

"I have an appointment," snapped his master; "an important one."

"Rather late, isn't it?" suggested the old servant.  "Remember that
there are spies about.  That little affair the other night aroused some
curiosity--I'm certain of it."

"Among a few common passers-by.  Bah! my dear Levi, they don't know
anything."

"But they may talk!  This house has already got a bad name, you know."

"Well, that's surely not my fault," cried the old man with a fiery flash
in his eyes.  "It's more your fault for acting so infernally
suspiciously and mysteriously.  I know quite well what people say of
me."

"A good deal that's true," declared old Levi in open defiance of the man
in whose service he had been so long.

Sam Statham grinned.  It was a subject which he did not wish to discuss.

"You can go to bed, Levi.  I'll open the door," he said to the man who
was his janitor.

"Who's coming?" inquired Levi abruptly.

"A friend.  I want to talk to him seriously and alone."

"What's his name?"

"Don't be so infernally inquisitive, Levi.  Go to bed, I tell you," he
croaked with a commanding wave of the hand.

The servant never thwarted his master's wishes.  He knew Sam Statham too
well.  A strange smile played about the corners of his mouth, and he
looked around to see that the whisky, syphons and glasses were on the
side table.  Then with a rather ill-grace said:

"Very well--good-night," and, bowing, he retired.

When the door had closed the old millionaire ground his teeth,
muttering:

"You must always poke your infernal long nose into my affairs.  But this
matter I'll keep to myself just for once.  I'm tired of your constant
interference and advice.  Ah!" he sighed.  "How strange life is!  Samuel
Statham, millionaire, they call me.  I saw it in the _Pall Mall_
to-night.  Rather Sam Statham, pauper--the Pauper of Park Lane!  Ah!  If
the public only knew!  If they only knew!" he gasped, halting suddenly
and staring wildly about him.  "What would be my future--what will it be
when my enemies, like a pack of wolves, fall upon me and tear me limb
from limb?  Yes, yes, they'll do that if I am unable to save myself.

"But why need I anticipate failure?  What does the sacrifice of one
woman matter when it will mean the assurance of my future--my salvation
from ruin?" he went on, speaking to himself in a low, hoarse voice.
"It's a thing I cannot tell Levi.  He must find it out.  He will--one
day--when the police inquiries give him the clue," and he snapped his
own white fingers nervously and glanced at the clock in apprehension.

He threw down his cigar, for it had gone out a long time ago.  Sam
Statham's life had been made up of many crises, and one of these he was
passing through on that hot, breathless night after the motor-'buses had
ceased their roar in Park Lane and tinkling cab-bells were few and far
between.

One o'clock, the sound of the gong arousing him.  He switched off the
light, and, walking to the window, raised one of the slats of the
Venetian blinds and peered out upon the pavement where so recently he
had first recognised that man from the grave--the man Jean Adam.

He stood behind the blue brocade curtains, watching eagerly.  The
passers-by were few--very few.  Lower-class London was mostly at Margate
and Ramsgate, while "the West-End" was totally absent, in Scotland or at
the sea.

He was wondering if Levi had really gone to bed.  Or was he lurking
there to ascertain who might be the visitor expected?  Old Sam crept
noiselessly to the door, and, opening it, peered out.  The wide hall was
now in darkness.  Levi had, apparently, obeyed his orders and gone below
to bed.  And yet, so faithful was he to his trust that nobody could ever
enter that house without him being aware of the identity of the visitor.

Sometimes old Sam would regret the brusque manner in which he treated
the man who was so entirely devoted to him and who shared so many of his
secrets.

But the secret of that night he did not intend Levi to share.  It was
his--and should be his alone.  And for that person he was waiting to
himself open the door to his midnight caller.

He was about to close the study door again when he fancied he heard a
slight movement in the darkness of the hall.  "Levi!" he exclaimed
angrily.  "What are you doing here when I ordered you to retire?"

"I'm doing my duty," responded the old servant, advancing out of the
shadow.  "I do not wish you to go to the door alone, and at night.  You
do not take sufficient care of your personal safety."

"Rubbish!  I have no fear," he answered as both stood there in the
darkness.

"Yes, but, you are injudicious," declared the old servant.  "If not, you
would have heeded young Rolfe's warning, and your present dangerous
position might have been avoided.  Adams means mischief.  You surely
can't close your eyes to that!"

"I know he does," answered the millionaire in a voice that seemed harsh
and hollow.  "I know I was a fool."

"You took a false step, and can't retrace it.  If you had consulted me I
would have given you my views upon the situation."

"Yes, Levi.  You're far too fond of expounding your view on subjects of
which you have no knowledge.  Your incessant chatter often annoys me,"
was his master's response.  "If I have committed an error, it is my
affair--not yours.  So go to bed, and leave me alone."

"I shall not," was Levi's open reply.

"I'm master here.  I order you to go!" cried Sam Statham in an angry,
commanding tone.

"And I refuse.  I will not allow you to run any further risk."

"What do you anticipate?" his master asked with sarcasm.  "Are you
expecting that my enemies intend to kill me in secret.  If so, I can
quickly disabuse your mind.  It would not be to their interests if I
were dead, for they could not then bleed me, as is, no doubt, their
intention.  I know Adams and his friends."

"So do I," declared Levi.  "Whatever plot they have formed against you
is no doubt clever and ingenious.  They are not men to act until every
preparation is complete."

"Then why fear for my personal safety?" asked the millionaire.  "I
always have this--and I can use it," and he drew from his pocket
something which glistened in the darkness--a neat plated revolver.

"I fear, because of late you've acted so injudiciously."

"Through ignorance.  I believed myself to be more shrewd than I really
am.  You see I admit my failing to you, Levi.  But only to you--to
nobody else.  The City believes Sam Statham to possess the keenest mind
and sharpest wits of any man between Temple Bar and Aldgate.  Strange,
isn't it, that each one of us earns a reputation for something in which
really does not excel?"

"You excel in disbelieving everybody," remarked Levi outspokenly.  "If
you believed that there was some little honesty in human nature you
might have been spared the present danger."

"You mean I'm too suspicious--eh?  My experience of life has made me
so," he growled.  "Of the thousand employees I possess, is there a man
among them honest?  And as for my friends, is there one I can trust--
except Ben and yourself, of course?"

"What about Rolfe?"

Sam Statham hesitated.  It was a question put too abruptly--a question
not easily decided on the spur of the moment.  Of course, ever since his
failure to go to Belgrade, he had entertained some misgivings regarding
his secretary.  There was more than one point of fact which did not
coincide with Rolfe's statements.  The old man was quickly suspicious,
and when he scented mystery, it was always a long time before his doubts
were allayed.  Like every man of great wealth, he had been surrounded by
sycophants, who had endeavoured to get rich at his expense.  The very
men he had helped to fortune had turned round afterwards and abused and
libelled him.  It was that which had long ago soured him against his
fellow men, and aroused in his heart a disbelief in all protestation of
honesty and uprightness.

Levi recognised his master's lack of confidence in Rolfe, and it caused
him to wonder.  Hitherto he had been full of praise of the clever and
energetic young secretary by whose smart business methods several great
concerns in which he had controlling interest had been put into a
flourishing condition.  But now, quite of a sudden, there was a
hesitancy which told too plainly of lack of confidence.  Was the star of
Rolfe's prosperity on the wane?

If so, Levi felt sorry, for he was attached to the young man, whom he
felt confident had the interests of his master thoroughly at heart.  Old
Levi was a queer fish.  He had seldom taken to anybody as he had done to
Mr Rolfe, who happily cracked a joke with him and asked after his
rheumatics.

"Levi," exclaimed Statham after a few moments of silence, "is it not
absurd for us to chatter here, in the darkness?  It's past one.  I wish
you to go downstairs and leave me alone."

"Why?" demanded the old retainer.

"Because I have a strong reason for opening the door myself.  I--well I
promised that my visitor should be seen by no one except myself.  Now,
do you understand?"

Levi did not answer for a few moments.

"Then in that case," he said with reluctance, "I suppose I must do as
you wish, only I'm very much against you opening the door yourself.  You
know that!"

And grunting, his dark figure moved along the hall, and he disappeared
down the stairs, wishing his master "good-night."

Statham, having listened to his retreating footsteps, re-entered the
library, which was still unlit, and, going again to the window, peered
forth into Park Lane.

Rain was falling, and the street-lamps cast long lines of light upon the
shining pavements.  In the faint ray of light that fell across the room
from without he bent and looked at his watch.  It was half-past one--the
hour of the appointment.

The old fellow raised both hands to his head and smoothed back his grey
hair.  Then he drew a long sigh, and waited in patience, peering forth
in eager expectancy.

For another ten minutes he remained almost motionless until at last his
ear caught the sound of a footstep coming from the direction of Oxford
Street, and a dark figure, passing the window, stopped beneath the
porch.

Next second he flew along the hall to the door, opening it noiselessly
to admit a woman in a black tailor-made gown and motor-cap, her features
but half concealed by a thin veil of grey gauze.

She crossed the threshold without speaking, for he raised his finger as
though to command her silence.  Then, when he had closed the door behind
her and slipped the bolt into its socket, he conducted her along to the
dark study, without uttering a word.

Her attitude and gait was that of fear and hesitancy; as though she
already regretted having come there, and would fain make her escape--if
escape were possible.

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

IN WHICH MARION IS INDISCREET.

On entering, old Statham switched on the electric light quietly, the
soft glow revealing the pale countenance of his guest.

The blanched face, with its apprehensive, half-frightened expression,
was that of Marion Rolfe.

"Well," he said in his thin, rather squeaky voice, after he had closed
the door behind her and drawn forward a chair, "you have at last
summoned courage to come--eh?"  He smiled at her triumphantly.  "Why
have you refused my invitation so many times?  My house, I know, bears a
reputation for mystery, but I am no ogre, I assure you, Miss Rolfe."

"Whispers have come back to me that I am believed by some to be a modern
Blue Beard, or by others a kind of seducer; but I trust you will
disbelieve the wild rumours put out by my enemies, and regard me as your
friend."

She had sunk into the soft depths of the green silk upholstered chair,
and, with her motor-veil thrown back, was gazing at the old man, half in
fear, half in wonder.  To his words she made no response.

"I hope the car I sent came for you as arranged?" he said, at once
changing the subject.

"Yes.  The man arrived punctually," she answered at last.  "But--"

"But what?"

"I ought never to have come here," she declared uneasily.  "I will have
to go before Mr Cunnington to-morrow for being absent all night, and
shall certainly be discharged.  He will never hear excuse in any case.
Instant dismissal is the hard and fast rule."

"Not in your case, Miss Rolfe," replied the old millionaire.  "Remember
that it is not Mr Cunnington who controls Cunnington's, Limited.  I
have asked you here in order to speak to you in strictest confidence.
Indeed, I want to take you into my confidence, if you'll allow me.
Perhaps you will be absent from Oxford Street a week--perhaps a month.
But when you return you will not find the vacancy filled."  His cold
eyes were fixed upon hers.  She found a strange fascination in the old
man's glance, for he seemed to fix her and hold her immovable.  Now, for
the first time she experienced what Charlie had so often told her,
namely, that Samuel Statham could, when he so desired, exercise an
extraordinary power over his fellow men.

"Absent a month?" she echoed, staring at him.  "What do you mean?"

"What I say.  The car is awaiting you at the Marble Arch, isn't it?"

"I suppose so.  The chauffeur put me down there--at your orders, I
believe."

"I told you to put on a thick coat and motor-veil.  I see you have done
as I wished.  I want you to go on a long journey."  She looked at the
grey, immovable face before her in sheer astonishment.  To this man both
her brother Charlie and she herself owed their present happiness.  And
yet he was a man of millions and of mystery.  Charlie had always been
reticent regarding the strange tales concerning the house in which she
now found herself, a visitor there under compulsion.  Max, on the other
hand, had often expressed wonder whether or not there was really any
substratum of truth.

As she sat there she recollected how, only a fortnight before, Max had
told her the latest queer story regarding the mysterious mansion and its
eccentric owner.  What would he say if he knew that she had dared to go
alone there--that she was seated in the old man's private room?

Dared!  If the truth were told, Sam Statham had written to her fully
half-a-dozen times, asking her to call upon him in secret in the evening
when her brother would have left, as he wished to speak with her.  Each
time she had replied making excuses, for within herself she could not
imagine upon what business he wished to see her.  She had only met him
once, on the day her brother took her to the City and asked his master
to secure her a berth at Cunnington's.  The interview only lasted five
minutes, and the impression he left upon her was that of a peevish,
snappy old man who held all women in abhorrence.

"Very well, very well, Rolfe," he had replied impatiently, "I'll write
to Cunnington's about your sister.  Remind me to-morrow."  Then, turning
to her, he had wished her a hasty good-bye, and resumed his writing.  He
had hardly taken the trouble to look at her.

Now, for the first time, he was gazing straight into her face, and she
thought she detected in his eyes an expression of sadness, combined with
kindliness.  An expert in the reading of character, however, would have
noticed beneath that assumed kindliness was an expression of triumph.
He had brought her there against her will.  She was there at his
bidding, merely because she dare not offend the man to whom both Charlie
and herself owed their daily bread.

For a long time she had held out against all his strongly-expressed
desires to see her.  His letters had been placed in her hand by a
special messenger, and Mr Warner, "the buyer," had on two occasions
witnessed their delivery, and wondered who might be his assistant's
correspondent.  He never dreamed that it was Samuel Statham, the man who
held the controlling interest in the huge concern.

The writer of those letters particularly requested her not to mention
the matter to her brother, therefore she more than once thought of
consulting Max.  But Statham's instructions was that she should regard
the matter as confidential so she had refrained, and at the same time
had met all his invitations with steady excuses.

At last on the previous day came a tersely worded note, which made it
plain that the millionaire would brook no refusal.  She was to purchase
a motor-cap and veil, and, wearing them, was, at an hour he appointed,
to meet a dark red motor car that would be awaiting her at Addison Road
station.  In it she was to drive back to the Marble Arch, where he was
to alight and walk along Park Lane direct to the house, where he himself
would admit her in secret.  The writer added that she was to ask no
questions, and that no reply was needed.  He would be expecting her.

And so she had come there in utter ignorance of his motive for inviting
her, and as she sat before him she became filled with apprehension.
Hers was, she knew, an adventure of which neither Charlie nor Max would
approve.

The clever old man read the girl's mind like an open book, and at once
sought to allay her misgivings.

"I see," he said, smiling, "that you are not altogether at your ease.
You're afraid of what people might say--eh?  Your fellow-assistants
wouldn't approve of you coming to see me at this hour, I suppose.  Yes,"
he laughed.  "What is considered discreditable among the middle classes
is deemed quite admissible in society.  But who need know unless you
yourself tell them?"

"It will be known to-morrow morning that I was absent," she said.

"Leave that to me.  Only one person will know--Cunnington himself.  So
make your mind quite easy upon that point, my dear young lady.  I can
quite understand your hesitation in coming here.  It is, of course, only
natural.  But you must remember in what high esteem I held your father,
and how for the sake of his memory I have taken your brother into my
service."

"Before we go further, Mr Statham," exclaimed the girl, "I would like
to take this opportunity of thanking you for all you've done for both of
us.  Had it not been for your generosity I'm sure Charlie would never
have been in such a position."

"Ah! you're very fond of your brother, eh?" he asked in his quick,
brusque way, leaning back in his armchair and placing his hands
together.

"Yes.  He is so very good to me."

"And you probably know something of his affairs?"

"Very little.  He doesn't tell me much."

"He talks of me sometimes, I suppose?" remarked the old man with a
good-humoured smile.

"With the greatest admiration always, Mr Statham.  He is devoted to
you," she declared.

The old man moved uneasily, and gave a sniff of suspicion combined with
a low grunt of satisfaction.

"He's engaged to some foreign woman, I hear," he said.  "You know her,
of course."

"You mean Maud Petrovitch.  Yes, she is my friend."

"Petrovitch--Petrovitch," he repeated, as though in ignorance of the
fact.  "I've heard that name before.  Sounds like a Russian name."

"Servian.  She is the daughter of Doctor Petrovitch, the well-known
Servian statesman."

"Of course.  I recollect now.  He's been in the Ministry once or twice.
I recollect having some dealings with him over the Servian Loan.  He was
Finance Minister then.  And so he is in love with her!" he said,
reflectively.  "If I remember aright, she's the only daughter.  His
Excellency invited me to dine at his house in Belgrade one night a few
years ago, and I saw her--a very pretty, dark-haired girl; she looked
more French than Servian."

"Her mother was English."

"Ah!"

And a dead silence fell, broken only by the low tinkle of a cab-bell
outside.

"So your brother is in love with the pretty daughter of the ex-Minister!
What a happy circumstance is youth!" sighed the old man.  "And you
yourself?" he went on, staring straight at her.  "You have a lover also!
How can I ask?  Of course, a beautiful girl like you must have a
lover."

Marion blushed deeply--dropping her eyes from his.  She was annoyed that
he should make such an outspoken comment, and yet she forgave him,
knowing full well what an eccentric person he was.

The truth was that the old man now, for the first time, realised how
extremely good-looking was the sister of his secretary.  He had been
told so by Mr Cunnington on one occasion, but he had heard without
paying attention.  Yet as he now sat with his gaze fastened upon her he
saw how uneasy she was, and how anxious to escape from his presence.

This rather piqued him.  He had a suspicion that her brother might have
said something to prejudice him in her estimation; therefore he exerted
all his efforts to place her at her ease--efforts which, alas! had but
little avail.  The silence of that sombre but gorgeous room, the weird
mystery of the house itself, and the thin-faced man of millions himself
all combined to fill her with some instinctive dread.  Alone there at
that hour, she felt herself completely in that man's power.

Only three days before she had read a paragraph in "M.A.P." regarding
his enormous wealth and his far-reaching power and influence.  The
writer said that Samuel Statham was a man who seldom smiled, and whose
own secretary scarcely knew him, so aloof did he hold himself from the
world.  And it was added that he, possessor of millions, preferred hot
baked potatoes on a winter's night to the finest dishes which a French
chef could contrive.

He was a man of simplest tastes, yet strangely erratic in his movements;
a man whose foresight in business matters was little short of
miraculous, and whose very touch seemed to turn dross to gold.  He had
declined half-a-dozen invitations to meet royalty at royalty's express
wish, and when offered a peerage by the Prime Minister before the late
Government went out of office he had respectfully declined the preferred
honour.  Sam Statham sneered at society, and turned a cold shoulder to
it--a fact which caused society to be all the more eager to know him.

Marion recollected every word of this as she sat in wonder at the actual
motive of her visit.  Her eyes wandered around the fine room with its
beautiful pictures, its priceless pieces of statuary, and its great
Chinese vases that were loot from the Summer Palace at Pekin.  The air
of wealth and luxury impressed her, while even the arrangement of the
electric lights, placed out of sight behind the book-cases and reflected
into the centre of the apartment, was so cunningly devised that the
illumination was bright without being glaring.

"And so you have a lover in secret--eh?" he laughed, leaning back and
regarding her with half-closed eyes.  "Like every other girl, you dream
of marriage and happiness--a shadowy dream, I can assure you.  Happiness
is as tangible as the moonbeams, and love as fleeting as the sunset.
But you are young, and will disbelieve me.  I don't ask you to heed me,
indeed, for I am old and world-weary and soured of life.  I only urge
upon you to pause, and think deeply, very deeply and earnestly, before
you plight your troth to any man.  Most men are unworthy, and all men
are liars."

Had he brought her there at that unusual hour to deliver a discourse
upon the perils of affection?

She sat listening to him without uttering a word.  But she thought of
Max--her Max, who loved her so dearly and so well--and she laughed
within herself at the old man's well-meant warnings.

His words were those of a man whose happiness had been wrecked by some
woman, vain and worthless.

Why had he insisted that she should visit him in secret?  To her, his
motive was a complete enigma, rendered the more complicated by his
vigorous denunciation of affection, and all that appertained to it.

CHAPTER THIRTY.

THE SPIDER'S PARLOUR.

"What you have told me, Miss Rolfe, concerning your brother's
engagement, interests me greatly," the old fellow said at last.  "He is
entirely in my confidence, and a most valuable assistant, therefore I,
naturally, am very anxious that he should not make an unhappy marriage."

"I--I hope that you will not say that I have told you," exclaimed the
girl quickly.  "I know I ought not to--"

"Whatever is said between us in this room, Miss Rolfe, is said in
strictest confidence," the millionaire declared.  "I have a good many
secrets in my keeping, you know.  Therefore rest assured that whatever
you tell me goes no further."

"You are against his marriage," she suggested, looking him boldly in the
face.

"I have not said so.  I am only seeking information abort the lady--Maud
Petrovitch, I think you said was her name?"

"Whatever I can tell you is only in her favour.  She was a dear--a very
dear friend of mine."

"Ah! then you have quarrelled--eh?" he said, looking at her sharply.

"You said she was your friend--you used the past tense."

"I know."

"Why?"

"Because,"--and she grew confused--"well, because something has
happened."

"To interrupt pure friendship?"

She did not reply.  He had craftily led up the conversation to Maud, and
was, as he had openly told her, seeking information.  He watched the
flush upon her cheeks, and the nervous manner in which she picked at her
skirt.

"And yet, though you are friends no longer, you are in favour of your
brother's marriage with the lady?  That appears strange.  I suppose he
loves her.  Every man loves at his age, and lives to regret it at
forty," he added with that touch of biting sarcasm that was never
absolutely absent from his remarks.

"Yes; Charlie does love her.  I'm convinced of that.  And her devotion
to him has always been very marked, from the first time they were
introduced at Aix-les-Bains.  She has told me how deep is her affection
for him."

"At Aix-les-Bains," Statham exclaimed in surprise: "I thought Doctor
Petrovitch lived in London?"

"And so he did--until recently."

"Where is he now?  I would much like to meet him again."

"I do not know.  He left London suddenly with his daughter."

"Your brother would know, of course."

"No.  He also is unaware of their present whereabouts," she answered
quickly, adding: "Recollect your promise not to mention the matter to
him."

"When I make a promise, Miss Rolfe, I keep it," was his grave response.
"Only forgive me for saying so, but you appear to be a little evasive
regarding the Doctor's daughter."

"Evasive?" she echoed.  "I don't understand you, Mr Statham."

"Well, you are trying to mislead me," he answered, knitting his brows
and looking her straight in the face.  "And let me say that when you try
to mislead Sam Statham you have a difficult task."

She started at his sudden change of manner, and again became confused.

"Now," he said, bending forward to her from his chair, "let us
understand each other at the outset.  You were the most intimate friend
of this girl Maud who, with her father, suddenly disappeared from
London.  The facts of their disappearance are already known to me, I may
as well tell you that much.  They vanished, and took their household
goods with them.  Perhaps they were afraid of anarchists or political
enemies, or perhaps the Doctor is wanted by the police.  Who knows?  It
was a mystery, and as such remains, is not that so?"

She nodded.  This knowledge of his astounded her.  She had believed that
the disappearance was only known to the two or three persons who had
been the Petrovitchs' personal friends.  She little dreamed of the many
spies in the pay of the great financier, men and women who reported to
him any political move at home or abroad which might influence the
markets.  The world had often believed that Sam Statham was omnipresent.
They knew nothing of his agents, or of their secret visits.

"Now, Miss Rolfe, let us advance one step further," the old man said,
still keeping his keen gaze upon hers.  "If you will kindly carry your
mind back to the day of their disappearance, you will remember that you
accompanied the Doctor's daughter to a concert at Queen's Hall."

"How do you know that?" she cried, starting up from her chair.

"How I know it is immaterial," he said firmly.  "Kindly re-seat
yourself."

"I will not," she declared boldly.  "You are cross-examining me as
though I were a criminal.  This is outrageous!"

"I politely request you to sit down, Miss Rolfe," he said, never moving
a muscle.

Her beautiful face was flushed with resentment and anger, as, standing
erect before him, she faced him in open defiance.

"I see no further point in this interview," was her cool reply.  "I will
go."

"I think it would be wiser for you to remain," he responded in a low,
determined voice; "wiser for you to answer my questions."

"I have already answered them."

"I wish to know something further," he said, stirring again in his
chair, and waving his hand with a repeated request that she would be
re-seated.

"I have nothing to conceal," was her reply, attempting to smile.  "Why
should I?"

"Why, indeed," he said, "I may as well tell you that I have reasons--
very strong business reasons--for elucidating this mystery concerning
Doctor Petrovitch.  To me it involves a question of many thousands of
pounds.  I have considerable interests out in Servia, as your brother
may have explained to you.  I must find the Doctor, and the reason I
have asked you here to-night is to invoke your aid in assisting me to do
so.  Can I be more explicit?"

He looked in her face, but a shrewd observer would have known by the
wavering smile at the corners of his mouth that he was not speaking the
exact truth.  There was some trick or motive underlying it all.

Though she did not detect this, she was still undecided.  Anger was
aroused within her by his commanding manner.  His attitude had changed
so suddenly that she had been taken thoroughly aback.

"I am afraid, Mr Statham, that I cannot render you any assistance in
discovering the whereabouts of the Petrovitchs."

"But, my dear young lady!" he cried.  "They had servants.  Surely there
is one who could give us some very valuable information."

"Perhaps so, if he or she could be found," she remarked.  "They, no
doubt, took every precaution against being followed.  As a matter of
fact, so great a care has the Doctor taken that his most intimate friend
in London is in ignorance."

"And who is he, pray?" asked the millionaire quickly.

"A gentleman named Barclay--Mr Max Barclay."

"Max Barclay!  I've heard of him.  A friend of your brother's, eh?  And
so he was the Doctor's friend?"

"They were inseparable, but the Doctor left without a word of farewell."

"And also the daughter--except to you, Miss Rolfe," he said, looking at
her meaningly.

"To me?"

"Yes," he went on, his keen gaze again upon her.  "It is useless to
assume ignorance.  You know quite well that the doctor's daughter, on
the night of their disappearance, made a statement to you--an important
statement."

"My brother told you that!" she cried.  "He has told you everything!"

"He has told me nothing," replied the old man coldly.  "I only ask
whether you deny that she made a statement."

The girl hesitated.

"She certainly spoke to me," she admitted at last.  "I was her most
intimate friend, and it was only natural perhaps that she told me what
was most uppermost in her mind."

"And what was that?"

"I regret," she replied, "that I cannot repeat it; Mr Statham."

"What!  You refuse to say anything?"

"Under compulsion--yes," was her firm answer.  "I did not know," she
added, "that you had invited me here to ply me with questions in this
manner."

"Or you would not have come, eh?" he laughed.  "Well, my dear young
lady, you apparently don't quite realise how very important it is to me
to discover Doctor Petrovitch.  I have asked you here in order to beg a
favour of you.  I may be rough and matter-of-fact, but I trust you will
pardon my apparent rudeness."

"There is nothing to forgive, Mr Statham," was her quiet, dignified
response.  "My reply, quite brief and at the same time unalterable, is
that I have nothing to say."

"You mean you refuse to tell me?"

She nodded.

He thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his old grey trousers, and
stared down at the carpet.  Marion Rolfe was more difficult to question
than he had anticipated.  She possessed the same firm, resolute nature
of her father and her brother.  That Maud Petrovitch had made a
statement to her which possessed a most important bearing upon the
serious interests involved, he was absolutely certain.  Ever since the
day following the strange disappearance, certain secret agents of his
had been at work, but they had discovered next to nothing.  Marion Rolfe
alone was in possession of the actual facts.  He knew that full well,
and was therefore determined that she should be compelled to speak and
explain.

"I wish, Miss Rolfe, that I could impress upon you the extreme
importance of this matter to myself personally," he said, assuming an
air quite conciliatory in the hope that he might induce her to reveal
the truth.  "I have begged of you to assist me in a very difficult
task--one which, if I fail in accomplishing, will mean an enormous
financial revenue.  Your brother is in my service, while you yourself
are also indirectly in my service," he added; "and if, as result of your
information, I am able to discover the Doctor, I need not tell you that
I shall mark your services in an appreciable manner."

"You have already been very generous to us both, Mr Statham, but I
think you cannot know much of me if you believe that for sake of reward
I will betray the Doctor," was her dignified answer.

"It is not a question of betrayal," he hastened to reassure her.  "It is
to his own interest as well as to mine that we should meet.  If we do
not, it will mean ruin to him."

"And if he is dead?" suggested Marion.

"My own belief is that he is not dead," was the millionaire's reply.  "I
know more of him and of his past than you imagine.  There is every
reason why he should live."

"And Maud--what of her?"

He shrugged his shoulders, and replied:

"As regards her--you know best.  She told you the truth."

"Yes--and which I will not repeat."

"Oh! but, my dear young lady, you must!  Why waste time like this?
Every day, nay every hour, causes the affair to assume increased
gravity.  I would have gone to the police long ago, only such a course
would have brought the Doctor into a criminal dock.  I have his
interests, as well as my own at heart."

"I have given my promise of secrecy, Mr Statham, and I will not betray
it," she repeated, again rising from her chair, anxious to leave the
house.

"You still refuse!" he cried starting to his feet also, and standing
before her.  "You still refuse--even to save yourself!"

"To save myself!" she exclaimed.  "I do not follow you, Mr Statham."

A sinister grin spread over his grey face.

"You are perfectly free to leave this place, Miss Rolfe," he said in a
hard, meaning voice, "but first reflect what they will say at
Cunnington's regarding your visit here to-night!"

"You--you will tell them!" she gasped, drawing back from him, pale as
death as she realised, for the first time, how she had imperilled her
good name, and how completely she was in his power.  "I--I believed, Mr
Statham, that you were an honourable man!"

"Where a man's life is concerned it is not a question of honour," was
his reply.  "You refuse to assist me--and I refuse to assist you.  That
is all!"

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

"HIS NAME!"

"Not a question of honour, Mr Statham!" she cried.  "Is it not a
question of my own honour!" and she stood before him, erect and defiant.

"My dear young lady," he laughed, "pray calm yourself.  Let us discuss
the matter quietly."

"There is nothing to discuss," she exclaimed resentfully, looking
straight into the old man's grey face.  "You have threatened to divulge
the secret of my visit to you to-night if--if I refuse to betray my
friend!  Is such an action honourable?  Does such a threat against a
defenceless woman do you credit?" she asked.

"You misunderstand me," he hastened to assure her, realising the mistake
he had made.

"I understand that you ask me a question," she said.  "You wish me to
repeat what was told to me in confidence--the secret imparted to me by
the girl who was my beat friend!"

"Yes; I wish to know what Maud Petrovitch told you," he answered,
standing with his thin hands behind his back.

"Then I regret that I am unable to satisfy your curiosity," was her firm
response.  "I now realise your motive in inviting me here at this hour
to see you in secret.  You meant me to compromise myself--to remain away
from Cunnington's and be punished for my absence--the punishment of
dismissal," she went on, her fine eyes flashing in anger at his
dastardly tactics.  "You know quite well, Mr Statham, that the world is
only too ready to think ill of a woman!  You anticipate that I will
betray my friend, in order to save myself from calumny and dismissal
from the service of the firm.  But in that you are mistaken.  No word
shall pass my lips, and I wish you good-night," she added with serve
hauteur, moving towards the door.

"No, Miss Rolfe!" he cried, quickly intercepting her.  "Surely it is
unnecessary to create this scene.  I hate scenes.  Life is really not
worth them.  You have denounced what you are pleased to call my
ungentlemanly tactics.  Well, I can only say in my defence that Samuel
Statham, although he is not all that he might be, has never acted the
blackguard towards a woman, and more especially, towards the daughter of
his dear friend."

"You have told me that you will refuse to assist me further!" she said.
"In other words, you decline to preserve the secret of my visit here,
although you made a promise that my absence to-night from Cunnington's
should not be noted!"

"I have given you a promise, Miss Rolfe, and I shall keep it," was his
quiet and serious response.

She looked at him with distrust.

"You have asked me a question, Mr Statham--one to which I am not
permitted to reply," she said.

"Why not?"

"Because--well, because I have made a vow to regard what was told me as
strictly in confidence."

Sam Statham pursed his lips.  Few were the secrets he could not learn
when he set his mind upon learning them.  In every capital in Europe he
had his agents, who, at orders from him, set about to discover what he
wished to know, whether it be a carefully-guarded diplomatic secret, or
whether it concerned the love affair of some royal prince to whom he was
making a loan.  He knew as much of the internal affairs of various
countries as their finance ministers did themselves, and with the
private affairs of some of his clients he was as well acquainted as were
their own valets.

To the possession of sound but secret information much of the old man's
success was due.  The mysterious men and women who so often came and
went to that house all poured into his ear facts they had gathered--
facts which he afterwards duly noted in the locked green-covered book
which he kept in the security of his safe.

Surely the contents of that book would, if published, have created a
huge sensation; for there were noted there many ugly incidents in the
lives of the men who were most prominent in Europe, together, be it
said, with facts concerning them that were highly creditable, and
sometimes counterbalanced the black pages in their history.

And this man of many secrets stood there thwarted by a mere chit of a
girl!

He regarded her coldly with expressionless eyes.  His gaze caused her to
shudder.  She withdrew from him with instinctive dislike.  About this
man of millions, whose touch turned everything to gold, there seemed to
her something superhuman, something indescribably fearsome.  His very
gaze seemed to fascinate her, and yet at the same time she regarded him
with distrust and horror.  She was a fool, she told herself, ever to
have listened to his appeal.  She ought to have had sense enough to know
that by bringing her there at that hour he had some sinister motive.

His motive was to wring from her the words of Maud Petrovitch.

Suddenly he altered his tactics, and, drawing her chair forward again,
said:

"Let us sit down and talk of something else.  You look pale.  May I
offer you something?"

"No, thank you," she replied.  It was true that his threatening words a
few moments ago had upset her, therefore she was glad to be seated
again.  He evidently did not intend that she should leave yet.

Having re-seated himself near his writing-table, he said: "As I
explained, I want you, if you will, to go on a journey for me.  The car
is awaiting you round in Deanery Street."

"A journey?  Is it far?"

"That all depends--if you are prepared to render me this service," he
replied.

"I am prepared to render you any service, Mr Statham, that is within my
power, and my conscience permits me," she said in a firm voice.

"Ah, now, that's better.  We're beginning to be friends.  When you know
me, you will not accuse me of ungentlemanly conduct--especially towards
a woman.  But," he added with a laugh, "I'm a woman hater.  I daresay
you've heard that about me--eh?"

She smiled also.

"Well--yes.  I've heard that you are not exactly a ladies' man.  But
surely you are not alone in the world in that!"

"If all men were like me, Miss Rolfe," he said, "there wouldn't be much
work for the parsons in the matter of marrying."

"You've been unfortunate, perhaps, in your female acquaintances," she
ventured to suggest.  His manner towards her had altered, therefore she
was again perfectly at her ease.

"Yes," he sighed.  "You have guessed correctly--unfortunate."

And then a dead silence fell, and Marion, watching his face, saw that he
was reflecting deeply.

Of a sudden, he looked straight into her face again, and said:

"You have a lover, Miss Rolfe--and you are happy.  Is not that so?"

The girl blushed deeply at this unexpected statement.  How could the old
man possibly know, unless some of the people at Cunnington's had carried
tales to him.  Perhaps Mr Warner had told Mr Cunnington, and he had
spoken to the millionaire!

"I see," he laughed, "that I've spoken the truth.  Max Barclay loves
you, doesn't he?  He's a friend of your brother's.  I know him, and
allow me to congratulate you.  He's a thoroughly good fellow, and would
be better if he'd keep off hazardous speculation."

She did not reply.  The old man's final sentence impressed her.  Max's
speculations were hazardous.  This was news to her.

"You don't deny that you love young Barclay, do you?" the old man
demanded.

She hesitated, her cheeks crimsoning.

"Well, why should I?" she asked.  "He is very good to me--very good,
indeed."

"That's right," he said approvingly.  "If I did not think him an honest,
upright fellow I should warn you against him.  Girls in your dependent
position, you know, are too frequently victims of men whom the world
call gentlemen.  You know that, don't you?"

"Yes," she answered in a low voice.  She was impressed by his solicitude
on her behalf.  In his eyes was a kindly glance, and she began to
declare within herself that she had misjudged him.

"Well," he went on, "when it came to my knowledge that Max Barclay was
paying court to you, and that you were seen together of an evening and
on Sundays, it gave me great satisfaction.  I owe a debt of gratitude to
your poor father, Miss Rolfe, and I am endeavouring to repay it to his
children.  Therefore I admit to you now that more than once I wondered
what kind of lover would be yours.  I anticipated annoyance, but, on the
contrary, I have only the most complete satisfaction."

"I am sure, Mr Statham, it is very kind of you to say this.  And surely
it is very generous of you to take in interest in Charlie and myself."

"It is not a matter of kindness, but a matter of duty," he said.  "We
were talking of Barclay.  How did you meet him?"

"Charlie introduced him to me one Sunday afternoon in the Park."

"And he has promised you marriage?  Tell me frankly."  She nodded, again
blushing deeply.

"Then you have my very heartiest wishes for your future happiness," he
declared with a pleasant smile.  "Mind I am told the date, so that I can
send you the usual teapot!"

Whereat they both laughed in chorus.  The old man could be charming when
he wished.

"Oh! we shan't be married for a long time yet, I suppose!"  Marion
exclaimed.  "Max talks of going with a shooting party up the Zambesi
next spring.  They'll be away a full year, I expect."

"And you'll be left all alone?" he said in a tone of surprise.  "No, I
don't think he'll do that.  He ought not to leave you alone at
Cunnington's."

"Oh, but he's going out to Turkey now--in a few days I think.  He has
some financial business out there.  Something which will bring him in a
very big sum of money."

"Oh, what's its nature?" asked the old financier, instantly pricking up
his ears.

"I believe it's a concession from the Sultan for the construction of a
railway from some place on the Servian frontier, across Northern
Albania, down to San Giovanni di Medua--if I pronounce the name aright--
on the Adriatic."

"What!" cried Statham, starting up.  "Are you quite certain of this?"

"Yes; why?" she asked, surprised at the sudden effect her words had
produced upon him.

"Well--well, because this is a surprise to me, Miss Rolfe," he said.
"Tell me the details, as far as you know them.  Has he spoken to you
about it?"

"Yes.  He is hesitating to go, not wishing to leave me."

"Of course.  Did I not tell you so a moment ago?" he remarked with a
smile.  "But are you aware that this concession, if the Sultan really
gives it, is of the greatest importance to the commercial development of
the Near East?  There are big interests involved, and correspondingly
big profits.  Curious that I have not heard anything of the scheme
lately!  It's a dream that every Balkan statesman has had for the past
fifteen years--the creating of an outlet for trade to the Adriatic; but
the Sultan could never be induced to allow the line to run through his
dominion.  He is not too friendly with either Bulgaria or Servia.  I
thought I was being kept well informed of all the openings in
Constantinople where British capital can be employed.  Yet I haven't
heard anything of this long discussed scheme for quite a year."

"Your informants believe, perhaps, that it would not interest you?"

"Interest me!" he echoed.  "Why, they could not successfully carry it
through in London without my aid--or, at least, without my consent.
Whoever is getting the concession--if it is being obtained at all, which
I very much doubt--knows full well that in the long run he must come to
Sam Statham.  Do you happen to know who, besides Barclay, is interested
in the scheme?"

"There is a French gentleman--a friend of Max's--who wants him to go to
Constantinople with him."

"What is his name?  I may probably know him?"

"Adam--Jean Adam."

"Jean Adam!" gasped the old man.  "Jean Adam--a friend of Max Barclay?"

"Yes," she answered, staring at him.  "Why?"

"Why, girl!" he cried roughly.  "Don't ask me why?  But tell me all
about it--tell me at once!"

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

MAN'S BROKEN PROMISES.

"I know very little of the details," replied the girl.  "Max could, of
course, tell you everything.  He introduced me one night to Mr Adam,
who seemed a very polite man."

"All bows and smiles, like the average Frenchman--eh?  Oh, yes.  I
happen to know him.  Well?"

"He seems a most intimate friend of Max's."

"Is he really?" remarked the millionaire.  "Then Max doesn't know as
much about him as I do."

"What?" asked Marion in quick alarm.  "Isn't he all that he pretends to
be?"

"No, he isn't.  I must see Barclay to-morrow--the first thing to-morrow.
I wonder if he's put any money into the venture?"

"Of that I don't know.  He only told me that it would mean a big
fortune."

"So it would--if it were genuine."

"Then isn't it genuine?" she asked anxiously.

"Genuine!  Why, of course not!  Nothing that Jean Adam has anything to
do with, my dear young lady, is ever genuine.  Depend upon it that his
Majesty the Sultan will never grant any such concession.  He fears
Bulgaria far too much.  If it could have been had, I may tell you at
once I should already have had it.  There is, as you say, a big thing to
be made out of it--a very big thing.  But while the Sultan lives the
line will never be constructed.  Pachitch, the Prime Minister of Servia,
told me so the last time I was in Belgrade, and I'm entirely of his
opinion."

"But what you tell me regarding Mr Adam surprises me."

"Ah! you are still young, Miss Rolfe!  You have many surprises yet in
store for you," he replied with a light laugh.  "Do you know Adam
personally?"

"Yes."

"Then beware of him, my girl--beware of him!" he snapped, his grey face
darkening in remembrance of certain ugly facts, and in recollection of
the sinister face of the shabby lounger against the park railings.

"Is he such a bad man, then?"

Sam Statham pressed his thin lips together.

"He is one of those men without conscience, and without compunction; a
man whose plausible tongue would deceive even Satan himself."

"Then he has deceived Max--I mean Mr Barclay," she exclaimed, quickly
correcting her slip of the tongue, her cheeks slightly crimsoning at the
same time.

"Without doubt," was the millionaire's reply.  "I must see Barclay
to-morrow, and ascertain what are Adam's plans."

"He is persuading Mr Barclay to go to Constantinople.  I know that
because he asked me to use my influence upon him in that direction."

"Oh, so he has approached you, also, has he?  Then there is some strong
motive for this journey, without a doubt!  Barclay will be ill-advised
if he accepts the invitation.  The bait held out is a very tempting one;
but when I've seen your gentleman friend he will not be so credulous."

"I'm very surprised at what you told me.  I thought Mr Adam quite a
nice person--for a foreigner."

"No doubt he was nice to you, for he wished to enlist your services to
induce your lover to go out to Turkey.  For what reason?"

"How can I tell?" asked the girl.  "Mr Barclay mentioned that the
railway concession would mean the commercial development of the Balkan
States, and that it would be one of the most paying enterprises in
Europe."

"That is admitted on all hands.  But as the concession is not granted,
and never will be granted, I cannot see what object Adam has in inducing
your friend to visit Constantinople.  Was he asked to put money into the
scheme, do you know?"

"Mr Adam did not wish him to put up any money until he had thoroughly
satisfied himself regarding the truth of his statements."

Statham was silent.

"That's distinctly curious," he remarked at last, apparently much
puzzled by her statement.  "Underlying it all is some sinister motive,
depend upon it."

"You alarm me, Mr Statham," the girl said, apprehensive of some
unexpected evil befalling the man she loved.

"It is as well to be forearmed in dealing with Jean Adam," was the old
man's response.  "More than one good man owes the ruin of his life's
happiness, nay his death, to the craft and cunning of that man, who,
under a dozen different aliases, is known in a dozen different capitals
of the world."

"Then he's an adventurer?"

"Most certainly.  Tell Barclay to come and see me.  Or better, I will
write to him myself.  It is well that you've told me this, otherwise--"
and he broke off short, without concluding his sentence.

The pretty clock chimed the half-hour musically, reminding Marion of the
unusual hour, and she stirred as if anxious to leave.  Her handkerchief
dropped upon the floor.  The old man noticed it, but did not direct her
attention to it.

"Then if you wish it, Mr Statham, I will say nothing to Mr Barclay,"
she remarked.

"No.  You need say nothing.  I will send him a message in the morning.
But," he added, looking straight into the girl's beautiful face, "will
you not reconsider your decision, Miss Rolfe?"

"My decision!  Of what?" she asked.

"Regarding the statement made to you by Maud Petrovitch.  She told you
something.  What was it?  Come, tell me.  Some very great financial
interests are involved in the ex-Minister's disappearance.  Your
information may save me from very heavy losses.  Will you not assist
me?"

"I regret that it is impossible."

"Have I not even to-night been your friend?" he pointed out.  "Have I
not warned you against the man who is Max Barclay's secret enemy--and
yours--the man Jean Adam?"

"I am very grateful indeed to you," she answered; "and if it were in my
power, I would tell you what she told me."

"In your power!" he laughed.  "Why, of course, it is in your power to
speak, if you wish?"

"Maud made a confession to me," she declared, "and I hold it sacred."

"A confession!" he exclaimed, regarding her in surprise.  "Regarding her
father, I suppose?"

"No; regarding herself."

"Ah!  A confession of a woman's weakness--eh?"

"Its nature is immaterial," she responded in a firm tone.  "I was her
most intimate friend, and she confided in me."

"And because it concerns her personally, you refuse to divulge it?"

"I am a woman, Mr Statham, and I will not betray anything that reflects
upon another woman's honour."

"Women are not usually so loyal to each other!" he remarked, not without
a touch of sarcasm.  "You appear to be unlike all the others I have
known."

"I am no better than anybody else, I suppose," she replied.  "Every
woman must surely possess a sense of what is right and just."

"Very few of them do," the old man snarled, for woman was a subject upon
which he always became bitterly sarcastic.  In his younger days he had
been essentially a ladies' man, but the closed page in his history had
surely been sufficient to sour him against the other sex.

The world, had it but known the truth, would not have pondered at Sam
Statham's hatred of society, and more especially the feminine element of
it.  But, like many another man, he was misjudged because he was
compelled to conceal the truth, and was condemned unjustly because it
was not permitted to him to make self-defence.

How many men--and women, too--live their lives in social ostracism, and
perhaps disgrace, because for family or other reasons they are unable to
exhibit to the world the truth.  Many a man, and many a woman, who read
these lines, are as grossly misjudged by their fellows as was Samuel
Statham, the millionaire who was a pauper, the man who lived that sad
and lonely life in his Park Lane mansion, daily gathering gold until he
became crushed beneath the weight of its awful responsibility, his sole
aim and relaxation being the mixing with the submerged workers of the
city, and relieving them by secret philanthropy.

The sinner assumes the cloak of piety, while too often the denounced and
maligned suffer in silence.  It was so in Samuel Statham's case; it is
so in more than one case which has come under my own personal
observation during the inquiries I made before writing this present
narrative of east and west.

The old millionaire was surprised at the girl's admission that what the
Doctor's daughter had told her was a confession.  He realised how, in
face of the fact that her brother loved Maud Petrovitch, it was not
likely that she would betray her.  Still, his curiosity was excited.
The girl before him knew the truth of the ex-Minister's strange
disappearance--knew, most probably, his whereabouts.

"Was the confession made to you by the Doctor's daughter of such a
private nature that you really cannot divulge it to me?" he asked her,
appealingly.  "Remember, I am not seeking to probe the secrets of a
young girl's life, Miss Rolfe.  On the contrary, I am anxious--most
anxious--to clear up what is at present a most mysterious and
unaccountable occurrence.  Doctor Petrovitch disappeared from London
just at a moment when his presence here was, in his own interests, as
well as in mine, most required.  I need not go into the details," he
went on, fixing her with his sunken eyes.  "It is sufficient to explain
to you that he and I had certain secret negotiations.  He came here on
many occasions, always in secret--at about this hour.  He preferred to
visit me in that manner, because of the spies who always haunted him and
who reported all his doings to Belgrade."

"I was not aware that you were on friendly terms," Marion remarked.
"Maud never told me that her father visited you."

"Because she was in ignorance," Statham replied.  "The Doctor was a
diplomatist, remember, and could keep a secret, even from his own
daughter.  From what I've told you, you can surely gather how extremely
anxious I am to know the truth."

Marion was silent.  She realised to the full that financial interests of
the millionaire were at stake--that her statement might save huge losses
if she betrayed Maud, and told this man the truth.  He was her friend
and benefactor.  To him both she and Charlie owed everything.  Without
him they would be compelled to face the world, she friendless and
practically penniless.  The penalty of her silence he had already
indicated.  By refraining from assisting her, he could to-morrow cast
her out of her employment, discredited and disgraced!

What would Max think?  What would he believe?

If she remained silent she would preserve Maud's honour and Charlie's
peace of mind.  He was devoted to the sweet-faced, half-foreign girl
with the stray little wisp of hair across her brow.  Yet if he knew what
she had told him he would hate her--he must hate her.  Ah! the mere
thought of it drove her to a frenzy of despair.

She set her teeth, and, with her face pale as death, she rose slowly to
go.  Her brows were knit, her countenance determined.

Come what might, she would be loyal to her friend.  Charlie should never
know the truth.  Rather than that she would sacrifice herself--sacrifice
her love for Max Barclay, which was to her the sweetest and most
treasured sentiment in all the world.

"I have asked you to assist me, Miss Rolfe," the old man said, in a low,
impressive voice, leaning his arm upon the edge of his writing-table and
bending towards her.  "Surely when you know all that it means to me, you
will not refuse?"

"I refuse to betray my friend," was her firm response, her face white to
the lips.  "You may act as you think proper, Mr Statham.  You may allow
my friends to think ill of me; you may stand aside and see me cast
to-morrow at a moment's notice out of Cunnington's employ because of my
absence to-night, but my lips are closed regarding the confession made
to me in confidence.  In anything else I am ready to serve you.  You
have asked me to go upon a journey in your interests--in a motor car
that is awaiting me.  This I am willing and anxious to do.  You are my
benefactor, and it is my duty to do what you wish."

"It is your duty, Miss Rolfe, to tell me what I desire to know."

"No!" she cried, facing him boldly, her bright eyes flashing defiantly
upon him.  "It is not my duty to betray my friend--even to you!"

"Very well," he answered, with a smile upon his thin lips.  "It is
getting late.  They may be wondering at Cunnington's.  I will see you to
the door."

And the expression upon his face showed her, alas! too plainly that for
her there was no future.

The present was already dead, the future--?

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

AGAINST THE RULES.

"Miss Rolfe, Mr Cunnington wants you in the counting-house," exclaimed
a youth approaching Marion just after ten o'clock the following morning.
She had been in the department early, and was busy re-arranging an
autumn costume upon a stand, with a ticket bearing the words, "Paris
model, 49 shillings, 11 pence."

The dread words that broke upon her ear caused her young heart to sink
within her.  As she feared, she was "carpeted."

To be absent at night without leave was the "sack" at a moment's notice
to any of Cunnington's girls.  There was no leniency in that respect as
in certain other large stores in London which I could name, where the
girls are so very badly paid that it is a scandal and disgrace to the
smug, church-going shareholders who grow fat upon their dividends.  But
who among those who bold shares in the big drapery concerns of London,
or who among the millions of customers on the look-out for bargains at
sales, care a jot for the poor girl-assistant, the drudgery she has to
undergo, or the evils she suffers by the iniquitous system of
"living-in?"

It is a dull, drab life indeed, the life of the London shop, with its
fortnight's holiday each year and its constant strain of the telling of
untruths in order to sell goods.  But the supply of shop labour is
always greater than the demand.  Girls and youths are always coming up
from the country in constant streams, "cribbing," as it is called--or on
the lookout for a berth--and as soon as a girl loses her freshness, or a
man's hair begins to show silver threads, he is thrown out in favour of
a youth--from Scotland or Wales by preference.

London, alas! little dreams of the callous heartlessness of employers in
the drapery trade.

Marion knew this.  Since she had been at Cunnington's her eyes had been
opened to the scant consideration she need expect.  Girls who had worked
in her department had been discharged merely because, suffering from a
cold or from the stress of overwork, they had been absent a couple of
days.  And all the information vouchsafed them was that the firm could
not afford to support invalids.  Once, indeed, she had sat beside a
dying girl in the Brompton Hospital--a girl to whom the close, vitiated
atmosphere of the shop had brought consumption, and she had been sent
forth, at a moment's notice, homeless, and to die.

And so, when the youth made the announcement, she knit her brows,
brushed the hair from her brow, placed down the pincushion in her hand,
and followed him through the several shops into another building where
Mr Cunnington's private room was situated.

In the outer office of the counting-house several persons, buyers,
callers, and others, were waiting audience with the chief.

One girl, a saucy, dark-haired assistant in the ribbons, exclaimed:

"Hullo, Rolfe!  What are you up for?"

Marion flushed slightly, and answered:

"I--I hardly know."

"Well, I'm going in for a rise, and if the guv'nor don't give it to me
I'm going to Westoby's to-morrow.  I've got a good crib there.  My young
man is shop-walker, so I'll get on like a house on fire."

"Westoby's is a lot better than here," remarked a pale-faced male
assistant.  "I was there for a sale once.  I only wish they'd have kept
me."

"I've heard that the food is wretched," remarked Marion, for the sake of
something to say.

"It isn't good," declared the young man, "but the girls get lots more
freedom.  They do as they like almost.  Old Westoby don't care, as long
as the business pays.  It's a public company, like this, but they do a
bit lower-class trade, which means more `spiffs.'"

"I haven't made a quid this last three months out of `spiffs'," declared
the ribbon-girl.  "That's why I want a rise."

Marion smiled within herself, for beyond the glass partition were quite
a dozen girls, all of them young, several quite good-looking, waiting to
see if any berths were vacant, and ready that very hour to take the
ribbon-girl's place--and hers.

Every girl who came up to London went first to Cunnington's, for the
assistants there were declared to be of better class than those of the
other drapery houses that jostle each other on the north side of Oxford
Street.

Marion waited, full of deep anxiety.  Every detail of that midnight
interview with the man who held controlling interest in the huge concern
came back to her--his clever attempt to ingratiate himself with her in
order to learn Maud's secret, and her curt dismissal when she had met
his request with point-blank refusal.

One by one the applicants for a hearing were received by Mr Cunnington,
again emerging from his room, some dark and angry, and others smiling
and happy.  At last her turn came, and she walked into the small office
with the severe-looking writing-table and the dark blue carpet.

The dark-bearded man, by whose enterprise that big business had been
built up, turned in his chair and faced her.

"Miss Rolfe!" he exclaimed.  "Ah! yes," and he referred to a memorandum
upon his desk.  "You were absent without leave last night, the
housekeeper reports.  You are aware of rule seventy-three--eh?"

"Most certainly, sir," was the trembling girl's reply, for this meant to
her all her future, and more.  It meant Max's love.  "But I think I
ought to explain that--"

"I have no time, miss, for explanations.  You know the rule.  When you
were engaged here you signed it, and therefore I suppose you've read it.
It states as follows: `Any assistant absent after eleven o'clock
without previously obtaining signed leave from Mr Hemmingway or myself
will be discharged on the following day.'  The firm have, therefore,
dispensed with your services.  As regards character, Miss Rolfe, please
understand that the firm is silent."

"But, Mr Cunnington," cried the girl, "I was absent at the express
request of Mr Statham.  He wished to see me."  The head of the firm
frowned slightly, answering:

"I have no desire to enter into the reasons of your absence.  You could
easily have asked for leave.  If Mr Statham had wished to see you, he
would have sent me a note, no doubt.  It was at his request I engaged
you, I recollect.  Therefore, I think that the least said regarding last
night the better."

"But Mr Statham promised me he would send you a message this morning,"
the girl declared in her distress.

"Parker, has Mr Statham been on the 'phone this morning?" asked Mr
Cunnington of the young man seated near him.

"No, sir," was the prompt reply.

"But will you not ask him?" cried the girl.  "He promised me he would
communicate with you."

Mr Cunnington hesitated for a moment.  He reflected that the girl was a
_protegee_ of the millionaire.  Therefore he gave Parker orders to ring
up the man whose millions controlled the concern.

Marion waited in breathless anxiousness.  The secretary asked for Mr
Statham, and spoke to him, inquiring if he knew anything of Miss Rolfe's
absence from the firm's dormitory on the previous night.  "Mr Statham
says, sir," said Parker at last, "that he is too busy to be troubled
with the affaire of any of Cunnington's shop-assistants."

The reply filled Mr Cunnington with suspicion.  It showed him plainly
that Statham had at least no further interest in the girl, and that her
discharge would be gratifying.

"You hear the reply," he said to her.  "That is enough."  And he
scribbled something upon a piece of paper.  "Take it to the cashier, and
he will pay your wages up to date."

"Then I am discharged!" asked the girl, crimsoning--"sent out from your
establishment without a character?"

"By reason of your own action," was the rough reply.  "You know the
rules.  Please leave.  I am far too busy to argue."

"But Mr Statham wrote asking me to call and see him.  I have his letter
here."

"I have no desire or inclination to enter into Mr Statham's affairs,"
Cunnington replied.  "You are discharged for being absent at night
without leave.  Will you go, Miss Rolfe?" he asked angrily.

"Mr Cunnington," she said, quite quietly, "you misjudge me entirely.
Mr Statham asked me to call upon him in secret, because he desired me
to give him some private information.  He promised at the same time to
send you word, so that my absence should not be mentioned.  You are a
man of honour, with daughters of your own," she went on appealingly.
"Because I refused to betray a friend of mine, a woman, he has refused
to stretch forth a hand to save me from the disgrace of this discharge,"
and tears welled in her fine eyes as she spoke.

"It is a matter that does not concern me in the least, Miss Rolfe, Mr
Statham put you here, and if he wishes for your discharge I have nothing
to say in the matter.  Good morning."

And he turned from her and busied himself with the heap of papers on his
desk.

She did not move.  She stood as one turned to stone.  Therefore he
touched the electric button beneath the arm of his chair, and a clerk
appeared.

"Send in Mortimer," he said coldly, disregarding the girl's presence.
Then Marion, seeing that all appeal was in vain, turned upon her heel
and went out--broken and bitter--a changed woman.

Mr Cunnington turned and watched her disappearing.  Suddenly, as though
half uncertain whether his action might not be criticised by Statham, he
exclaimed:

"Call that young lady back!"

Marion returned, her face full of anger and dignity.

"Do I really understand you that Mr Statham invited you to his house?"
he asked her.  "I mean that you received letters from him?"

"Yes."

The dark-bearded man, alert and businesslike, eyed her critically, and
asked:

"You have those letters, I presume."

"Certainly.  I have them here," was her reply, as she fumbled in the
pocket of her black skirt.  "I refused to call upon him, but he pressed
me so much that I felt it imperative.  He has been so very good to me
that I feared to displease him."

And she placed several letters upon Mr Cunnington's desk.

"I see they are marked `private,'" he said, with a good deal of
curiosity.  "Have I your permission to glance at them?"

"Certainly," was the cool reply.  "You refuse to hear me, therefore I am
compelled to give you proof."

The man opened them one after the other, scanned them, and placed them
aside.  Statham's refusal to answer the query upon the telephone was for
him all-sufficient.

"You had better leave these letters with me, Miss Rolfe," he said
decisively, for he saw that at all hazards he must obtain that
correspondence and hand it back to the writer.

"But--"

"There are no buts," he exclaimed, quickly interrupting her.  "Had Mr
Statham desired you to remain in our service he would have replied to
that effect.  Come, you are wasting my time.  Good morning."

And a moment later, almost before she was aware of it, Marion found
herself outside the room, with the door closed behind her.

She was no longer in the service of Cunnington's.  She had been
discharged in disgrace.

What would Charlie say?  What explanation could she offer to Max?

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.

THE MYSTERIOUS MADEMOISELLE.

The future, nay, the very life, of Samuel Statham depended, according to
his own admission to his secretary, upon the honour of Maud Petrovitch.

The position was, to say the least, strangely incongruous.  Here was a
man whose power and wealth were world-famous, a man whom kings and
princes sought to conciliate and load with honours, which he steadfastly
refused to accept, dependent for his life upon a woman, little more than
a child.

Charlie Rolfe had thought over his master's strange, enigmatical words
many times.  Maud--his Maud whom he loved so dearly, and who had so
suddenly and mysteriously gone out of his life--was to be sacrificed.
Why?  What did old Sam mean when he uttered those words, each of which
had burnt indelibly into his soul.

"You have promised to save me; you have sworn to assist me, and the
sacrifice is imperative?"  Statham had said.  "It is her honour--or my
death!"

Each time he entered the grim portals of the silent house in Park Lane
those fateful words recurred to him.  The house of mystery seemed dark
and chilly, even on those sunny days of early September, and old Levi
seemed more sphinx-like and solemn.  A dozen times had he been on the
point of referring again to the matter, but each time he had refrained,
for the millionaire's manner had now changed.  He was less anxious, and
far more bright and hopeful.  The discovery of Duncan Macgregor seemed
to have wrought a great change in him, for the old Scot frequently spent
the evening there, being telegraphed for from Glasgow, ostensibly to
discuss business matters.

On the day following Marion's visit to Park Lane Charlie was in Paris,
having been sent there overnight upon a pressing message to the branch
house in the Avenue de l'Opera, for Statham Brothers were as well-known
for their stability in France as in England.

Just before twelve o'clock, as he was issuing from the fine offices of
the firm into the street, he stumbled against a rather short but
well-dressed girl of about twenty-four.  He raised his hat, and in
English asked her pardon, whereupon, with a light laugh, she replied in
the same tongue.

"Oh, really no apology is needed, Mr Rolfe."

He glanced at her inquiringly.

"I--I really haven't the pleasure of your name," he said, still upon the
doorstep of the office.  At all events, she was rather good-looking and
well-bred, even if her stature was a trifle diminutive.  Her gown was in
excellent taste, too.

"My name really doesn't matter," she laughed.  "I know you quite well.
You are Mr Charles Rolfe, old Mr Statham's secretary."

Then, in an instant, the troth flashed across his mind.  This girl must
be one of old Sam's friends--one of his secret agents controlled and
paid from the office in Old Broad Street.

"You wish to speak to me--eh?" he asked, in a quick, businesslike way.

"Yes; I do.  Let us stroll somewhere where we can talk."  Then after a
moment's reflection she added: "The Tuileries Gardens would be a good
place.  We might avoid eavesdroppers there."

"Certainly," he said, and, rather interested in the adventure, he
strolled along at her side.  She put up her pale blue sunshade, for it
was a hot day, and at that hour the Avenue was deserted, for the
work-girls were not yet out from the numerous ateliers in the
neighbourhood, and half Paris was away at the spas or at the sea.

Rolfe knew many of old Sam's spies, but had never seen this English girl
before.  That she was a lady seemed evident by her manner and speech,
and that she had something of importance to tell him was plain.  She
had, no doubt, learned of his flying visit to Paris--for he meant to
leave for London at four o'clock--and had come to the office in order
that he could not escape her.

As he walked beside her, a well-set-up figure in dark grey flannel, he
cast a furtive glance at the pretty, dark-complexioned face beneath the
turquoise sunshade.  She looked younger than she was, for her skirts
only reached to her ankles, displaying a neat brown shoe tied with large
bows.  Across her brow was just a tiny wisp of stray hair, reminding him
forcibly of the sweet countenance of his lost love.  He recollected how
he used to tease her about that unruly little lock, and how often he
used to tenderly brush it back from her eyes.

"You live in Paris?" he asked as they walked together.

"Sometimes," was her rather vague reply.  "I'm always fond of it, for it
is so bright and pleasant after--" and she was on the point of giving
him a clue to her place of abode, but stopped her words in time.

"After what?" he asked.

"After other places," she answered evasively.

He glanced at her again, wondering whom she might be.  A girl of her age
could scarcely act as secret agent in financial matters.  Her white gown
perhaps gave her a more girlish appearance than she otherwise possessed,
but there could be no two opinions that she was really good-looking.

She had approached him with timidity and modesty, yet in those few
minutes of their acquaintance she had already become quite friendly, and
they were already laughing together as they crossed the Rue de Rivoli.

"I knew you were in Paris, and came here specially to meet you, Mr
Rolfe," she said at last.  "I'm afraid you must think me very dreadful
to purposely compel you to apologise and speak to me."

"Not at all.  Only--well, I think you know you have a rather unfair
advantage of me.  You ought to give me your name," he urged.

"I have my own reasons for not doing so," she laughed.  "It is
sufficient for you to know that I am your friend."

"And a very charming little friend, too," he laughed.  "I only wish all
my friends were so dainty as yourself."

"Ah! so you are a flatterer--eh?" she said, reproving him with a smile.

"Not flattery--but the truth," he declared, filled with curiosity as to
whom she might be.  Why, he wondered, had she sought him?  Perhaps if he
described her at the office they had just left, she might be known
there.

Though out of the season, there was still life and movement in the Rue
de Rivoli, as there always is between the Magasins du Louvre and the Rue
Castiglione.  The tweeds and blouses of the Cook's tourists were in
evidence as usual, and the little midinette tripped gaily through the
throng.

At last they entered the gate of the public gardens, which in the
afternoons are given over to nurses in white caps and children with
air-balls, and, walking some distance, still chatting, presently found a
seat in full view of the Quai with its traffic and the sluggish Seine
beyond.

Then as he seated himself beside her she, with her sunshade held behind
her head, threw herself back slightly and laughed saucily in his face,
displaying her red lips and even, pearly teeth.

"Isn't this a rather amusing meeting?" she asked, with tantalising air.
"I know you are dying to know who I am.  Just think.  Have you never
seen me before?"

Charlie was puzzled--sorely puzzled.  He tried to think, but to his
knowledge he had never previously set eyes upon the dark-haired little
witch before in all his life.

"I--well I really don't recollect.  You've asked me a riddle, and I've
given it up."

"But think.  Have you never seen me before?"

"In London?"

"No; somewhere else--a long way from here."

He shook his head.  She was a complete enigma this girl not yet out of
her teens.

"I must apologise to you, but I do not recollect," he said.  "If you
refuse to tell me who you are, you can surely give me your Christian
name."

"Why?"

"Well, because--"

"Because of your natural curiosity!" she declared.  "Men are always
curious.  They always want to get at hard facts.  Half the romance of
life is taken away by their desire to go straight to the truth of
things.  Women are fond of a little imagination."

Was she merely carrying on a mild flirtation with him because of a sheer
love of romance?  He had heard of girls of her age, overfed upon
romantic novels and filled with daydreams, starting out upon adventures
similarly perilous.  He looked into her eyes, and saw that they danced
with tantalising merriment.  She was making fun of him!

"My curiosity is certainly natural," he said, a little severely, piqued
by her superiority.  "You have told me that you wish to speak with me in
confidence.  How can I repose equal confidence in you if you refuse me
your name?"

"I do not ask you to repose confidence in me, Mr Rolfe," was her quick
response, opening her eyes widely.  "I have brought you here to tell you
something--something which I know will greatly interest you, more so,
indeed, than the question of whom and what I am."

"Then tell me your Christian name, so that I may address you by that."

For a moment she did not reply.  Her gaze was fixed straight before her.
The wind stirred the dusty leaves above them, causing them to sigh
slightly, while before them along the Quai a big cream-coloured
automobile sped swiftly, trumpeting loudly.

At last she turned to him, and with a smile upon her fresh dimpled
cheeks, she said:

"My name is a rather unusual one--Lorena."

"Lorena!" he echoed.  "What a very pretty name!  Almost as charming as
its owner!"

She moved with a gesture of mock impatience, declaring: "You are really
too bad, Mr Rolfe!  Why do you say these things?"

"I only speak the truth.  I feel flattered that you should deign to take
notice of such an unimportant person as myself."

"Unimportant!" she cried, again opening her eyes and making a quick
gesture which showed foreign residence.  "Is Mr Statham's secretary an
unimportant man?"

"Certainly."

"But he is of importance to one person at least."

"To whom?"

For a moment she did not answer.  Then, she turned her dark eyes full
upon his, and replied:

"To the woman who loves him!"

Charlie started perceptibly.  What could the girl mean?  Did she mean
that she herself entertained affection for him, or was she merely
hinting at what she believed might possibly be the case--that he was
beloved.

He was more than ever dumbfounded by her attitude.  There was something
very mysterious about her--a mystery increased by her own sweet,
piquante and unconventional manner.  In his whole career he had never
met with a similar adventure.  At one moment he doubted her genuineness,
but at the next he reflected how, at the first moment of their meeting,
she had been extremely anxious to speak with him alone.  Her attitude
was of one who had some confidential information to impart--something no
doubt in the interests of the world-renowned firm of Statham Brothers.

Other secret agents of Sam Statham whom he had seen on their visits to
Park Lane had been mostly men and women advanced in age, for the most
part wearing an outward aspect of severe respectability.  Some were,
however, the reverse.  One was a well-known dancer at the music-halls of
Paris and Vienna, whose pretty face looked out from postcards in almost
every shop on the Continent.

But the question was, who could be this dainty girl who called herself
Lorena?

"What do you mean by the woman who loves me?" he asked her presently,
after a pause.  "I don't quite follow you.  Who does me the great honour
of entertaining any affection for me?"

"Who?  Can you really ask that?" she said.  "Ask yourself?"

"I have asked myself," he laughed, rather uneasily, meeting her glance
and wavering beneath it.

"Ah! you will not admit the truth, I see," she remarked, raising her
finger in shy reproof.

"Of what?"

"That you are beloved--that you are the lover of Maud Petrovitch!"

"Maud Petrovitch!" he gasped.  "You know her?  Tell me," he cried
quickly.

"I have told you," she answered.  "I have stirred your memory of a fact
which you have apparently forgotten, Mr Rolfe."

"Forgotten--forgotten Maud!" he exclaimed.  "I have never for a moment
forgotten her.  She is lost to me--and you know it.  Tell me the truth.
Where is she?  _Where can I see her_?"

But the girl only shook her head slowly in sadness.  Over her bright,
merry face had fallen a sudden gloom, a look of deep regret and dark
despair.

"Where is she?" he demanded, springing up from the seat and facing his
companion.

But she made no response.  She only stared blankly before her at the
dark sluggish waters of the Seine.

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

IN WHICH THERE IS ANOTHER MYSTERY.

The girl puzzled him.

Her attitude was as though she delighted in tantalising him, as if she
held knowledge superior to his own.  And so she did.  She was evidently
aware of the whereabouts of Maud--his own lost love.

He repeated his question, his eyes fixed upon her pale, serious
countenance.  But she made no response.

"Why have you brought me here, Miss Lorena?" he asked.  "You told me you
had something to tell me."

"So I have," she answered, looking up at him again.  "I don't know, Mr
Rolfe, what opinion you must have of me, but I hope you will consider my
self-introduction permissible under the circumstances."

"Why, of course," he declared, for truth to tell he was much interested
in her.  She seemed so charmingly unconventional, not much more than a
schoolgirl, and yet with all the delightful sweetness of budding
womanhood.  "But you have mentioned the name of a woman--a woman who is
lost to me."

"Ah!  Maud Petrovitch," she sighed.  "Yes.  I know.  I know all the
tragic story."

"The tragic story?" he echoed, staring at her.  "What do you mean?"

"I mean the tragic story of your love," was her slow, distinct reply.
"Pray forgive me, Mr Rolfe, for mentioning a subject which must be most
painful, but I have only done so to show you that I am aware of the
secret of your affection."

"Then you are a friend of Maud?"

She nodded, without uttering a word.

"Where is she?  I must see her," he said quickly, with a fierce, anxious
look upon his countenance.  "This suspense is killing me."

She was silent.  Slowly she turned her fine eyes upon his, looking
straight into his face.

"You ought surely to know," she said, unflinchingly.

"I--I know!  Why?  Why do you say that?"

"Because you know the truth--you know why they so suddenly disappeared."

"I know the truth!" he repeated.  "Indeed I do not.  You are speaking in
enigmas, just as you yourself are an enigma, Miss Lorena."

Her lips relaxed into a smile of incredulity.

"Why, Mr Rolfe, do you make a pretence of ignorance, when you are fully
aware of the whole of the combination of circumstances which led Doctor
Petrovitch and his daughter to escape from London?"

"But, my dear girl!" he cried; "you entirely misjudge me.  I am in
complete ignorance."

"And yet you were present at Cromwell Road on the night in question!"
she said slowly, fixing her eyes calmly upon him.

"Who are you, Miss Lorena, that you should make these direct allegations
against me?" he cried, staring at her.

"I am your friend, Mr Rolfe, if you will allow me to act as such."

"My friend!" he cried.  "But you are alleging that I have secret
knowledge of the Doctor's disappearance--that I make a pretence of
ignorance.  If I were in possession of the facts, is it feasible that I
should be so anxious of the welfare of Maud?"

"No anxiety is necessary."

"Then she is alive?"

"I believe so."

"And well?"

"Yes, she is quite well.  But--"

"But what?" he demanded.  "Speak, Lorena.  Speak, I beg of you."

She had hesitated, and he saw by her contracted brow that anxiety had
arisen within her mind.

"Well--she is safe, I believe, up to the present.  Yet if what I fear be
true, she is daily nay, hourly, in peril--in deadliest peril."

"Peril!" he gasped.  "Of what?"

"Of her life.  You know that the political organisations of the East are
fraught with murder plots.  Dr Petrovitch has opponents--fierce,
dastardly opponents, who would hesitate at nothing to encompass his end.
They have intrigued to induce the King to place him in disgrace, but at
Belgrade the Petrovitch party are still predominant.  It is only in the
country--at Nisch and Pirot--where the Opposition is really strong."

"You seem to know Servia and the complication of Servian politics,
mademoiselle?" he remarked.

"Yes, I happen to know something of them.  I have made them a study, and
I assure you it would be very fascinating if there were not quite so
many imprisonments in the awful fortress of Belgrade, and secret
assassination.  But Servia is a young country," the girl added, with a
philosophic air, "and all young countries must go through the same
periods of unrest and internal trouble.  At any rate, all parties in
Servia acknowledge that King Peter is a constitutional monarch, and is
doing his utmost for the benefit of his people."

"You are a partisan of the Karageorgevitch?"

"I am.  I make no secret of it.  Alexander and Draga were mere puppets
in the hands of Servia's enemies.  Under King Peter the country is once
more prosperous, and, after all, political life there is no more fraught
with danger than it is in go-ahead Bulgaria.  Did they not kill poor
Petkoff the other day in the Boris Garden in Sofia?  That was a more
cruel and dastardly murder than any in Servia, for Petkoff had only one
arm, and was unable to defend himself.  The other was shot away at the
Shipka where he fought for his country against the Turk."

"How is it you know so much of Servia?"  Charlie inquired, for he found
himself listening to the girl's sound arguments with much interest.  Her
views upon the complicated situation in the Near East were almost
identical with his.  "Did you ever see Petkoff, for instance?"

"I knew him well.  Twice I've dined at his house is Sofia.  Strangely
enough, he was with his bosom friend Stambuloff when the latter was
assassinated, and for years was a marked man.  As Prince Ferdinand's
Prime Minister, which he was at the time he was shot, he introduced many
reforms into Bulgaria, and was a patriot to the core."

He was surprised.  Who could this girl be who dined with Prime
Ministers, and who was, apparently, behind the scenes of Balkan
politics?

"And you fear lest the same fate should befall Maud.  Why?" he asked.

"Because the Opposition has a motive--a strong motive."

"For the secret assassination of the daughter of the man who has made
Servia what she is!" he exclaimed.

"Yes.  Maud is in peril."

"And for that reason, I suppose, is living incognito?"

"Possibly," she answered, not without hesitation.  "There is, I believe,
a second reason."

"What is that?"

"I scarcely like to tell you, Mr Rolfe.  We are strangers, you and I."

"But do tell me.  I am very anxious to know.  If she is your friend, she
has, no doubt, told you of our love."

"Well, she wishes to avoid you."

"Avoid me--why?"

"Because acquaintance with you increases her peril."

"How absurd!" he cried.  "How can her love for me affect her father's
political opponents in Servia?"

"I am ignorant of the reasons.  I only know the broad facts."

"But the Doctor had retired from active political life long ago!  He
told me one day how tired he was of the eternal bickerings of the
Skuptchina."

"Of course he had ostensibly retired, but he secretly directed the
policy of the present Government.  In all serious matters King Peter
still consults him."

"And that is why you have brought me into the privacy of these gardens,
Miss Lorena--to tell me this!" he laughed, bending to her and drawing a
semi-circle in the gravel with the point of his stick.

"No," she replied sharply, with just a little frown of displeasure.
"You do not understand me, Mr Rolfe.  Have I not said, a few moments
ago, that I wanted to be your friend?"

"You are a most delightful little friend," was his courteous reply.

"Ah!  I see.  You treat me as a child," was her rather impatient reply.
"You are not serious."

"I am most serious," he declared, with a solemn face.  "Indeed, I was
never more serious in my life than I am at this moment."

She burst out laughing--a peal of light, merry, irresponsible, girlish
laughter.

"And before I met you," she said, "I thought you a most terribly austere
person."

"So I am--at times.  I have to be, Miss Lorena.  I'm secretary to a very
serious old gentleman, remember."

"Yes.  And that was the very reason why I threw the convenances to the
winds--if there are any in the Anglo-French circle in Paris--and spoke
to you--a perfect stranger."

"You spoke because I was Mr Statham's secretary?" he asked, somewhat
puzzled.

"Yes.  I wanted to speak to you privately."

"Well, nobody can overhear us here," he said glancing around, and
noticing only a fat _bonne_ wheeling a puny child in a gaudily-trapped
perambulator.

"I wanted to speak to you regarding Mr Statham," she said, after a long
pause.  "I ascertained you were coming to Paris, and waited in order to
see you."

"Why?" he asked, much surprised.  The refusal of her name, her
determination to conceal her identity, her friendship for Maud, and her
intimate acquaintance with thing Servian, all combined to puzzle him to
the verge of distraction.  Who was she?  What was she?

The mystery of the Doctor and his daughter was an increasing one.  His
pretended ignorance of certain facts had been unmasked by her in a
manner which showed that she was aware of the actual truth.  Was she
really a secret messenger from the girl he loved so devotedly--the girl
with whom he had last walked and talked with in the quietness of the
London sundown in Nevern Square?

He glanced again at her pretty but mysterious face.  She was a lady--
refined, well-educated, with tiny white hands and well-shod feet.  There
was nothing of the artificial _chic_ of the Parisienne about her, but a
quiet dignity which seemed almost incongruous in one so young.  Indeed,
he wondered that she was allowed about in the streets of Paris alone,
without a chaperone.

Her piquante manner, and her utter disregard of all conventionality,
amused him.  True, she was older than Maud but most possibly her bosom
friend.  If so, Maud was probably in hiding in Paris, and this pretty
girl had been sent to him as Cupid's messenger.

"I wanted to see you on a matter which closely concerns Mr Statham."

"Anything that concerns Mr Statham concerns myself, Miss Lorena," he
said.  "I am his confidential secretary."

"I have ascertained that, otherwise I would not have dared to speak to
you.  I want to warn you."

"Of what?"

"Of a deeply-laid conspiracy to wreck Mr Statham's life," she said.
"There have arisen recently two men who are now determined to lay bare
the secret of the millionaire's past, in revenge for some old grievance,
real or fancied."

"For the purposes of blackmail--eh?" he asked.  "Every rich man is
constantly being subjected to attempted blackmail in some form or
other."

"No.  They have no desire to obtain money.  Their sole intention is to
expose Mr Statham."

"Most men who are unsuccessful are eager to denounce the methods of
their more fortunate friends," he said, smiling.  "Mr Statham has no
fear of exposure, I assure you."  The girl looked him straight in the
face with a long, steady gaze.

"Ah!  I see?" she exclaimed, after a pause.  "You treat me as an enemy,
Mr Rolfe; not as a friend."

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.

THE LOCKED DOOR IN PARK LANE.

"Excuse me, Miss Lorena, I do not," he declared quickly.  "Only we have
heard so many threats of exposure that to cease to regard them
seriously.  Mr Statham's high reputation is sufficient guarantee to the
public."

"I quite admit that," answered the girl.  "It is not the present that is
in question, but the past."

"In these days of hustle, a man's past matters but little.  It is what
he is, not what he was, which the public recognise."

"Personally," she said, "I hold Mr Statham in highest esteem.  I have
never met him, it's true, but I have knowledge of certain kind and
generous actions on his part, actions which have brought happiness and
prosperity to those who have fallen upon misfortune.  For that reason I
resolved to speak to you and warn you of the plot in progress.  Do you
happen to know a certain Mr John Adams?"

Rolfe started, and stared at her.  What could she know of the Damoclean
sword suspended over the house of Statham?

"Well," he answered guardedly, "I once met a man of that name, I think."

"Recently?"

"About a month ago."

"You knew nothing of him prior to that?"

Rolfe hesitated.  "Well, no," he replied.

"He made pretence of being friendly with you."

"Yes.  But to tell you the truth I was somewhat suspicions of him.  What
do you know of him?  Tell me."

"I happen to be well acquainted with him," the girl responded.  "It is
he who has arisen like one from the grave, and intends to avenge the
wrong which he declares that Mr Statham had done him."

"Recently?"

"No, years ago, when they were abroad together--and Mr Statham was still
a poor man."

Charlie Rolfe was silent.  He knew Adams; he knew, too, that evil was
intended.  He had warned old Sam Statham, but the latter had not heeded.
Adams had had the audacity to approach him in confidence, believing
that he might be bought over.  When he had discovered that the
millionaire's secretary was incorruptible, he openly declared his
sinister intentions.

"I had no idea you were acquainted with Adams," he said, still puzzled
to know who she was, and what was her motive.

"I happen to know certain details of the plot," she answered.

"And you will reveal them to me?" he asked in quick anxiety.

"Upon certain conditions."

"And what are they?  I am all attention."

"The first is that you will not seek to learn the identity of the person
who is associated with Mr Adams in the forthcoming exposure; and the
second is that you say nothing to Mr Statham regarding our secret
meeting."

"Why?" he asked, not quite understanding the reason of her last
stipulation.  "I thought you wished to warn Mr Statham?"

"No.  I warn you.  You can take measures of precaution, on Mr Statham's
behalf without making explanation."

"Mr Statham has already seen John Adams and recognised him.  He is
already forewarned."

"And he has not taken any steps in self-defence?" she cried quickly.

"Why need he trouble?"

"Why, because that man Adams has sworn to hound him to
self-destruction."

Rolfe shrugged his shoulders, and replied:

"Mr Statham has really no apprehension of any unpleasantness, Miss
Lorena.  It is true that in the old days the two men were friends, and,
apparently, they quarrelled.  Adams was lost for years to all who knew
him, and now suddenly reappears to find his old acquaintance wealthy
beyond the dreams of avarice, and seeks, as many more before him have
done, to profit by his former friendship."

"Or enmity," added the girl, lowering her sunshade a little until for a
moment it hid her features.  "I do not think you realise the dastardly
cunning of the plot in progress.  It has not only as its object the ruin
of the credit of the house of Statham Brothers, but the creation of a
scandal which Mr Samuel Statham will not dare to face.  He must either
fly the country, or commit suicide."

"Well?"

"The latter is expected by the two men who have combined and are now
perfecting their ingenious conspiracy.  It is believed by them that he
will take his own life."

Charlie Rolfe reflected for a moment.  He recollected old Sam's terrible
agitation on the day when he recognised John Adams leaning against the
railings of the Park.  Of late, the great financier had betrayed signs
of unusual nervousness, and had complained several times of insomnia.
To his secretary knowledge he had spent two nights that very week in
walking the streets of London from midnight until dawn, ostensibly to do
charitable actions to the homeless, but in reality because his mind was
becoming unbalanced by the constant strain of not knowing from one
moment to another when Adams would deal his staggering blow.

Had there been any question of blackmail, the aid of solicitors and of
Scotland Yard could have been invoked.  But there had been no threat
beyond the statement made openly to Rolfe by the man who intended to
encompass the ruin of the eccentric millionaire and philanthropist.

"I think, Miss Lorena, that we need have no fear of Mr Statham doing
anything rash," he said.  "But why is it hoped that he will prefer to
take his life rather than face any exposure?"

"Because they will profit by his death--profit to an enormous degree."

"But how can Adams profit?  He has had no dealings with Mr Statham of
late."

"Not Adams, but his friend.  The latter will become wealthy."

"And may I not know his name?"

"No.  That is the stipulation which I make.  For the present it is
sufficient that you should be made aware of the broad lines of the plot,
and that its main object is the death of Samuel Statham."

"And you wish me to tell him all this?"

"Certainly, only without explaining that I was your informant."

"Why do you wish to conceal the fact, Miss Lorena?" he asked.  "Surely
he would be only too delighted to be able to thank you for your
warning?"

She shook her head, saying:

"If it were known that I had exposed their plans it would place me in
peril.  They are determined and relentless men, who would willingly
sacrifice a woman in order to gain their ends, which in this case is a
large fortune."

"And you will not tell me the name of Adams's associate in the matter?"

"No.  I--I cannot do that.  Please do not ask me," she answered
hurriedly.

Rolfe was again silent for a few moments.  At last he asked:

"Cannot you tell me something of the past relations between Adams and
Statham?  You seem to know all the details of the strange affair."

"Adams makes certain serious allegations which he can substantiate.
There is a certain witness whom Mr Statham believes to be dead, but who
is still alive, and is now in England."

"A witness--of what?" asked Rolfe quickly.

"Of the crime which Adams alleges."

"Crime--what crime?" ejaculated the young man in surprise, staring at
his pretty companion.

"Some serious offence, but of what nature I am not permitted to explain
to you."

"Why not, Miss Lorena?  You must!  Remember that Mr Statham is in
ignorance of this--I mean that Adams intends to charge him with a crime.
Surely the position is most serious!  I imagined that Adams's charges
were criticism of Mr Statham's methods of finance."

"Finance does not enter into it at all," said the girl.  "The delegation
is a secret crime by which the millionaire laid the foundation of his
fortune; a crime committed abroad, and of which there are two witnesses
still living, men who were, until a few weeks ago, believed to be dead.

"But you tell me that Adams's associate will, if Mr Statham commits
suicide, profit to an enormous amount.  Will you not explain?  If this
is so, why have they not attempted to levy blackmail?  If the charge has
foundation--which I do not for one moment believe--then surely Mr
Statham would be prepared to make payment and hush up the affair?  He
would not be human if he refused."

"The pair are fully alive to the danger of any attempt to procure money
by promise of secrecy," she replied.  "They have already fully
considered the matter, and arrived at the conclusion that to compel Mr
Statham to take his own life is the wiser and easier course."

"You seem to be in their confidence, Miss Lorena?" he said, gazing at
the pretty girl at his side.

"Yes, I am.  That is why I am unable to reveal to you the name of
Adams's companion," she replied.  "All I can tell you is that the
intention is to make against him a terrible charge of which they possess
evidence which is, apparently, overwhelming."

"Then you know the charge it is intended to bring against him--eh?"

"Yes," was her prompt answer.  "To me it seems outrageous,
incomprehensible--and yet--"

"Well?"

"And yet, if it is really true, it would account to a very great degree
for Mr Statham's eccentricity of which I've so often read in the
papers.  No one enters his house in Park Lane.  Is not that so?"

"He is shy, and does not care for strangers," was Rolfe's response.

"But it said in the paper only a week ago that nobody has ever been
upstairs in that house except himself.  There is a door on the stairs,
they say, which is always kept locked and bolted."

"And if that is so?"

"Well--have you ever been upstairs, Mr Rolfe.  Tell me; I'm very
anxious to know."

"I make no secret of it," was his reply, smiling the while.  "I have
never been upstairs.  Entrance there is forbidden."

"Even to you--his confidential secretary?"

"Yes, even to me."

"And yet there are signs of the upstairs' rooms being occupied," she
remarked.  "I have seen lights there myself, as I've passed the house.
I was along Park Lane late one evening last week."

"So you have been recently in London?"

"London is my home.  I am only here on a visit," was her reply.  "And
ascertaining you were coming here, I resolved to see you."

"And has this serious allegation which Adams intends to bring any
connection with the mystery concerning the mansion?"

"Yes.  It has."

"In what way?"

She paused, as though uncertain whether or not to tell the truth.

"Because," she said at last, "because I firmly believe, from facts known
to me, that confirmation of the truth of Adams's charge will be
discovered beyond that locked door!"

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.

MAX BARCLAY IS INQUISITIVE.

"Miss Rolfe has left the firm's employ, sir."

"Left--left Cunnington's?" gasped Max Barclay, staring open-mouthed at
Mr Warner, the buyer.

"Yes, sir.  She left suddenly yesterday morning," repeated the dapper
little man with the pen behind his ear.

"But this is most extraordinary--to leave at a moment's notice!  I
thought she was so very comfortable here.  She always spoke so kindly of
you, and for the consideration with which you always treated her."

"It was very kind of her, I'm sure," replied the buyer; "but it is the
rule here--a moment's notice on either side."

"But why?  Why has she left?"

Warner hesitated.  He, of course, knew the truth, but he was not anxious
to speak it.

"Some little misunderstanding, I think."

"With you?"

"Oh, dear no.  She was called down to the counting-house yesterday
morning, and she did not return."

"Then she's been discharged--eh?" asked Max in a hard voice.

"I believe so, sir.  At least, it would appear so."

"And are they in the habit of discharging assistants in this manner--
throwing them out of a home and out of employment at a moment's notice?
Is Mr Cunnington himself aware of it?"

"It would be Mr Cunnington himself who discharged her," was the buyer's
answer.  "No other person has authority either to engage or discharge."

"But there must be a reason for her dismissal!" exclaimed Max.

"Certainly.  But only Mr Cunnington knows that."

"Can I see him?"

"Well, at this hour he's generally very busy indeed; but if you go down
to the counting-house in the next building, and ask for him, he may give
you a moment."

"Thank you, Mr Warner," Barclay said, a little abruptly, and, turning
on his heel, left the department.

"She hasn't told him evidently," remarked one girl-assistant to the
other.  "I'm sorry Rolfie's gone.  She wasn't half a bad sort.  She was
old Warner's favourite, too, or her young gentleman would never have
been allowed to talk to her in the shop.  If you or I had had a young
man to come and see us as she had, we'd have been fired out long ago."

"I wonder who her young man really is," remarked the second girl,
watching him as he strode out, a lithe figure in a well-cut suit of grey
tweeds.

"Well, he's a thorough gentleman, just like her brother," remarked her
companion.  "I saw him in his motor-boat up at Hampton the Sunday before
last.  He's completely gone on her.  I wonder what'll happen now.  I
don't think much of the new girl; do you?  Does her hair awfully badly."
Unconscious of the criticism he had evoked, Max Barclay descended the
stairs, passed through the long shops--crowded as they always were in
the afternoon--into the adjoining building, and sought audience of the
titular head of the great firm.

After waiting for some time in an outer office he was shown in.  The
moment he asked his question Mr Cunnington grasped the situation.

"I very much regret, sir, that it is not my habit to give information to
a second party concerning the dismissal of any of my assistants.  If the
young lady applies for her character, she is perfectly entitled to have
it."

"But I apply for her character," said Max promptly.

"You are not an employer, sir.  She has not applied to you for a
situation."

"No; but I may surely know the reason she has left your service?"  Max
pointed out.  "Her brother, who is abroad just now, is my most intimate
friend."

Mr Cunnington stroked his dark beard thoughtfully, but shook his head,
saying:

"I much regret, Mr Barclay, that I am unable to give you the
information you seek.  Would it not be better to ask the young lady
herself?"

"But she has left, and I have no idea of her address!" exclaimed
Barclay.  "Can you furnish me with it?"

The head of Cunnington's, Limited, took up the telephone receiver and
asked for a certain Mr Hughes, of whom he made inquiry if Miss Rolfe
had left her address.

There was a wait of a few moments, then Mr Cunnington turned and said:

"The young lady left no address.  She was asked, but refused to give
one."

Max's heart sank within him.  She had been dismissed at an instant's
notice, and was lost to him.  He turned upon Mr Cunnington in quick
anger and said:

"So I am to understand that you refuse me all information concerning
her?"

"I merely adhere to my rule, sir.  Any dismissal of my assistants is a
matter between myself and the person dismissed.  I am not called upon to
give details or reasons to outsiders.  I regret that I am very busy, and
must wish you good afternoon."

Max Barclay bit his lip.  He did not like the brisk, business-ike air of
the man.

"I shall call upon Mr Statham, whom I happen to know," he said.  "And I
shall invoke his aid."

"You are perfectly at liberty to do just as you like, my dear sir.  Even
Mr Statham exercises no authority over the assistants in this
establishment.  It is my own department and I brook no interference."

Max did not reply, but left the office and strode out into Oxford
Street, pushing past the crowd of women around the huge shop-windows
admiring the feminine finery there displayed so temptingly.

Marion--his Marion--had disappeared.  She had been dismissed--in
disgrace evidently; probably for some petty fault or for breaking one of
the hundred rules by which every assistant was bound.  He had always
heard Mr Cunnington spoken of as a most lenient, and even generous,
employer, yet his treatment of Marion had been anything but just or
humane.

When he thought of it his blood boiled.  Charlie was away, he knew.  He
had telephoned to his rooms that very morning, but his man had replied
that his master had left hurriedly for the Continent--for Paris, he
thought.

At the corner of Bond Street he halted, and glanced at his watch.
Should he try and find Charlie by telegraph or should he take the bull
by the horns and go and see old Sam Statham.  His well-beloved had
disappeared.  Would the old financier assist him to discover the truth?

He was well aware that for a comparative stranger to be deceived in that
big house in Park Lane was exceptional.  Old Levi had his orders, and
few among the many callers ever placed their foot over the
carefully-guarded threshold.  Still, he resolved to make the attempt,
and, with that object, jumped into a taxi-cab which happened at the
moment to be passing.

Alighting at the house, he presented his card to old Levi, who opened
the door, and asked the favour of a few moments' conversation with Mr
Statham?  The old servant scrutinised the card closely, and took stock
of the visitor, who, noticing his hesitation, added: "Mr Statham will
remember me, I believe."

Levi asked him into the hall, with a dissatisfied grunt, and
disappeared, to return a few moments later, and usher the visitor into
the presence of the millionaire.

Old Samuel, who had been dozing over a newspaper in the his easy-chair
near the fireplace, rose, and, through his spectacles, regarded his
visitor with some suspicion.  The blinds were drawn, shading the room
from the afternoon sun, therefore Max found the place was in comparative
darkness after the glare outside.

In a few moments, however, when his eyes grew accustomed to the
semi-darkness, he saw the old fellow wave his hand in the direction of a
chair, saying:

"I'm very glad you called, Mr Barclay--very glad.  Indeed, curiously
enough, I intended to write to you only yesterday upon a business
matter, but I was too busy."

Barclay seated himself, full of surprise that the great financier should
wish to consult him upon any business matter.

"Well, Mr Statham," he said, "I may as well tell you at once that I am
here to seek your kind assistance and help in a purely personal matter--
a matter which closely concerns my own happiness."

Statham pricked up his ears.  He knew what was coming.  Marion Rolfe had
told him of her visit there.

"Well?" he asked coldly, in a changed manner.

"You possibly are unaware that I am engaged to be married to Marion
Rolfe, the sister of your secretary, a young lady in whom you were kind
enough to take an interest am obtain for her a situation at
Cunnington's."

The old man nodded, his countenance sphinx-like.

"The lady in question has been dismissed by Mr Cunnington at a moment's
notice, and he refuses to tell me the reason of his very remarkable
action.  I want you to be good enough to obtain a response for me."

"And where is the young lady?" asked the wary Statham.

"Nobody knows.  She would leave no address."

"Then you are unaware of her whereabouts?"

"She has disappeared."

"Extraordinary!" the old fellow remarked, reflecting deeply for a
moment.

"Yes.  I cannot imagine why, in the circumstances, she has not written
to me," Max declared, the expression upon his face betraying his deep
distress.

"It is certainly somewhat strange," the old man agreed.  "Girls at
Cunnington's are not often discharged in that manner.  Cunnington
himself is always most lenient.  Have you seen him?"

"Yes; and he absolutely refuses any information."

"In that case, Mr Barclay, I don't see very well how I can assist you.
The management and organisation of the concern are left to him, as
managing director.  I really cannot interfere."

"But was it not through you that Marion, without previous experience or
apprenticeship, was engaged there?"

"Yes; I have some recollection of sending a line of recommendation to
Cunnington," was the millionaire's response.  "But, of course, my
interest ended there.  My secretary asked me to write the note, and I
did so."

"Then you really cannot obtain for me the information I desire?"

"But why are you so inquisitive--eh?" snapped the old man.  "Surely the
lady will tell you the reason of her dismissal!"

"I don't know where she is."

"A fact which is--well--rather curious--shall we designate it?" the old
man remarked meaningly.

"You mean to imply that her instant dismissal has cast a slur upon her
character, and that she fears to meet me lest she be compelled to tell
me the truth?" he said slowly as the suggestion dawned upon him.  "Ah!
I see.  You refuse to help me, Mr Statham, because--because I love
her."

And his face became pale, hard-set, and determined.

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.

FRIEND OR FOE?

The two men were silent for some moments.  Statham was watching his
visitor's face.  To him it was, at least, satisfactory to know that
Marion had disappeared, fearing to let her lover know the reason of her
sudden dismissal lest he should misjudge her.

Truth to tell, he had anticipated that she would have gone straight to
Barclay and told him the truth.  Within himself he acknowledged that he
had played the poor girl a scoundrelly trick, but consoled himself with
the thought that when a man's life was at stake, as his was, any mode of
escape became justifiable.

At last the old man stirred in his chair, and, turning to Max, said:

"Please understand plainly it is not because I refuse to help you, but
because it is not within my province to dictate to Cunnington replies
regarding his assistants."

"But you hold a controlling interest in the firm," declared the other.

"That may be so, but I have nothing to do with the details of
organisation," he replied.  "No, Mr Barclay, let us end this matter
with an expression of my regret at being unable to assist you.  Perhaps,
however, I may be able to do so in another direction."

"In another direction!" he echoed.  "How?"

"In a small matter of business."

Max Barclay was both surprised and interested.  He knew quite well that
Statham could if he wished, give him previous knowledge that would
enable him to make a considerable coup.  Ignorance of Marion's visit to
the old man or the cause of her dismissal allowed him to regard the
millionaire with feelings of friendliness, and to reflect that, after
all, he had no power to dictate to Cunnington.

"You know, Mr Barclay," he said, "I frequently obtain confidential
knowledge of what is transpiring in the world of finance.  The other day
it came to my ears, through a source it is unnecessary to mention, that
the Adriatic railway concession has been placed before you."

Max opened his eyes.  He believed that not a soul except the man who had
joined him in partnership was aware of this.  The information must have
come from Constantinople, he thought.

"That is true," he admitted.

"A big thing!" remarked the old man in his croaking voice.  "A very big
thing indeed--means prosperity to the Balkan countries.  But pardon me
if I ask one or two questions.  Do not think I have any intention of
going behind your back, or attempting to upset your plans.  I merely ask
for information, because, as perhaps you know, there is but one man in
London who could float such a thing, and it is myself."

"I know, Mr Statham, that we shall be compelled to come to you when we
have the concession all in order."

"You will," he said with a smile.  "But can you, without injury to
yourself, tell me who is your associate in this business?"

"A Frenchman--Mr Jean Adam, of Constantinople."  Statham's face never
moved a muscle.  Of this he was already quite well aware.

"An old friend of yours, I suppose?"

"Not--not exactly an old friend.  I met him for the first time about a
month or so ago," responded Max.

"And what do you know of him?"

"Nothing much except that I believe him to be a man of the highest
integrity and the possessor of many friends interested in high finance."

"Oh! and what causes you to believe that?"

"Well, we first met in Paris, where, having mooted the idea of a
partnership, he introduced me to several well-known people, among them
Baron Tellier, who arranged the match monopoly of Turkey, and Herr
Hengelmann, of Frankfort, whom, no doubt, you know as the concessionaire
of the German railway from the Bosphorus to Bagdad."

The old man gave vent to a dissatisfied grant.

"Both men stand very high in the financial world, do they not?"  Max
asked.

"Well--they did," replied old Sam, smiling.

"Did?  What, have they gone under?"

"No.  Only Hengelmann has been in his coffin fully two years, and the
Baron died at Nice last winter."

"What?" cried Max, starting forward.

"I repeat what I say, Mr Barclay.  Your friend Adam has been indulging
in a pretty fiction."

"Are you sure?  Are you quite sure they are dead?"

"Most certainly.  I was staying in the same hotel at Nice when the Baron
died, and I followed him to the grave.  He was a great friend of mine."

Max Barclay sat stunned.  Until that moment he had believed in Jean Adam
and his plausible tales, but he now saw how very cleverly he had been
deceived and imposed upon.

"You're surprised," he laughed.  "But you must remember that you can get
a decent suit of gentlemanly clothes for five pounds, and visiting-cards
are only two shillings a hundred.  People so often overlook those two
important facts in life.  Thousands of men can put off their identity
with their clothes."

"But Adam--do you happen to know him?"  Max asked.  "If you do, it will
surely be a very friendly act to tell me the truth."

"Well," replied the elder man with some hesitancy, "I may as well tell
you at once that the Sultan has never given any concession for the
railway from Nisch to San Giovanni di Medua to cross Turkish territory--
and will never give it.  He fears Bulgaria and Servia too much, for he
never knows what Power may be behind them.  And, after all, who can
blame him?  Why should he open his gates to an enemy?  Albania is always
in unrest, for in the north the Christians predominate, and there is
bound to be trouble ere long."

"Then you believe that the whole thing is a fiction?"

"Most certainly it is.  If there was any idea of the Sultan giving an
irade, I should most certainly know of it.  I have good agents in
Constantinople.  No.  Take it from me that the concession will never be
given.  It is not to Turkey's interest to allow the development of
Servia and Bulgaria, therefore your friend's pretty tale is all a fairy
story."

"Then why is he pressing me to go out to Constantinople?"  Max asked.

Statham shrugged his shoulders, indicative of ignorance.

"Perhaps he thinks you will plank down money?" he suggested.

"He wants nothing until I myself am satisfied with the _bona fides_ of
the business."

"Stuff on his part, most likely.  He's a past-master of the art."

"How well do you know him?"

"Sufficiently well to have nothing to do with him."

"Then that accounts for his refusal to allow me to confide in you," said
Barclay.  "I see the reason now."

"Of course, act just as you think fit.  Only recollect that what I've
told you is bed-rock fact.  The man who calls himself Adam is a person
to be avoided."

"Have you had dealings with him?"

"Just once--and they had a very unpleasant result."

He reflected upon certain remarks and criticisms which the Frenchman had
uttered concerning Statham and his normal methods.  In the light of what
he now knew, he saw that the two men were enemies.  It seemed as though
one man wished to tell him something, and yet was hesitant.

"Have you put any money into the scheme?" the millionaire asked.

"Not yet."

"Then don't.  Tell him to take it somewhere else.  Better still, tell
him to bring it to me.  You need not, however, say that it is I who
warned you.  Leave him in the dark in that direction.  He's a clever
fellow--extraordinarily clever.  Who is with him now?"

"Well, he has a friend named Lyle--a mining engineer."

"Leonard Lyle--a hunchback?" asked Statham quickly.

The millionaire's countenance went a trifle paler, and about the corners
of his thin lips was a hard expression.  To him, the seriousness of the
conspiracy was only too apparent.

Those two men intended that he should be driven to take his own life--to
die an ignominious death.

"You've spoken to this man Lyle?" he asked in as steady a voice as he
could.

"Once or twice.  He seems to possess a very intimate knowledge of
Servia, Bulgaria, and European Turkey.  Is he an adventurer like Adam?"

"Not exactly," was the rather ambiguous reply.  "But his association
with Adam shows plainly that fraud is intended."

"But why does he want me to go post-haste out to Turkey?" queried Max,
who had risen from his chair in the excitement of this sudden revelation
which caused his brilliant scheme to vanish into thin air.

"To induce confidence, I expect he would have introduced you to some men
wearing fezzes, and declared them to be Pashas high in favour at the
Yildiz Kiosk.  Then before you left Constantinople he would have held
you to your bargain to put money into the thing.  Oh! never fear, you
would have fallen a victim in one way or another.  So it's best that you
should know the character of the two men with whom you are dealing.
Take my advice; treat them with caution, but refuse to stir from London.
They will, no doubt, use every persuasion to induce you to go, but your
best course is to hear all their arguments, watch the gradual
development of their scheme, and inform me of it.  Will you do it?"

"Will my information assist you in any way, Mr Statham?"

"Yes, it will--very materially," the old man answered.

"I have revealed to you the truth, and I ask you, in return, to render
me this little assistance.  What I desire to know, is their movements
daily, and how they intend to act."

"Towards whom?"

"Towards myself."

"Then they are associated against you, you believe?"

"I suspect them to be," the old man replied.  "I know them to be my
enemies.  They are, like thousands of other men, jealous of my success,
and believe they have a grievance against me--one that is entirely
unfounded."

"And if I do this will you assist me to obtain knowledge of the reason
why Marion Rolfe has been dismissed?" asked Max eagerly.

The old man hesitated, but only for a second.  It was easy enough to
give him a letter to Cunnington, and afterwards to telephone to Oxford
Street instructions to the head of the firm to refuse a reply.

So, consenting, he took a sheet of note-paper, and scribbled a few lines
of request to Mr Cunnington, which he handed to Max, saying:

"There, I hope that will have the desired effect, Mr Barclay.  On your
part, remember, you will keep in with Adam and Lyle, and give me all the
information you can gather.  I know how to repay a friendly service
rendered to me, so you are, no doubt, well aware.  You will be welcome
here at any hour.  I shall tell Levi to admit you."

"That's a bargain," the younger man asserted.  "When will Rolfe return?"

"To-morrow, or next day.  He's in Paris.  Shall I tell him you wish to
see him?"

"Please."

"But say nothing regarding Adam or his friend.  Our compact is a
strictly private one, remember."

And then Max, grasping the hands of the man whom he believed was his
friend, placed the note in his pocket and went out into the blazing hot
September afternoon.

As he disappeared along the pavement the old millionaire watched him
unseen from behind the blind.

"To the friendship of that man--that man whom I have wronged--I shall
owe my life," he murmured aloud.

And then, crossing to the telephone on his table, he asked for Mr
Cunnington.

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE.

THE CITY OF UNREST.

Ten days had passed since Charlie had met the mysterious Lorena in
Paris.

To both Charlie and Max--though now separated by the breadth of Europe--
they had been breathless, anxious, never-to-be-forgotten days.

The ominous words of Lorena ever recurred to him.  Apparently the girl
knew far more than she had told him, and her declaration that
confirmation of Adams's charges would be found beyond that
white-enamelled door in Park Lane gripped his senses.  He could think of
nothing else.

She had left him in the Rue de Rivoli, outside the Gardens, refusing her
address or any further account of herself.  She had warned him--that
was, she said, all-sufficient.

He blamed himself a thousand times for not having followed her; for not
having sought some further information concerning the peril of old Sam
Statham.

Yet the afternoon following, just as he was about to drive from the
Grand Hotel to the Gare du Nord, to return to London, one of the clerks
from Old Broad Street had arrived, bearing a letter from the head of the
firm, giving him instructions to proceed to Servia at once and transact
certain business with the Government regarding certain copper
concessions in the district of Kaopanik.  The deal meant the
introduction of a considerable amount of British capital into Servia,
and had support from his Majesty King Peter downwards.  Indeed, all were
in favour save the Opposition in the Skuptchina, or Parliament, a set of
unruly peasants who opposed every measure the Pashitch Government put
forward.

The business brooked no delay.  Therefore Charlie, that same night,
entered the Orient express, that train of dusty _wagons-lit_ which runs
three times a week between Paris and Constantinople, and three days
later arrived in Belgrade, the Servian capital.

He was no stranger in that rather pleasant town, perched high up at the
junction of the Save with the broad Danube.  The passport officer at
Semlin station recognised him, and gave him a _visa_ at once, and on
alighting at Belgrade the little ferret-eyed man idling outside the
station did not follow him, for he knew him by sight and was well aware
that the Grand Hotel was his destination.

There are more spies in Belgrade than in any other city in Europe.  So
much foreign intrigue is ever in progress that the Servian authorities
are compelled to support a whole army of secret agents to watch and
report.  Hence it is that the stranger, from the moment he sets foot in
Belgrade to the moment he leaves it, is watched, and his every movement
noted and reported.  Yet all is so well managed that the foreigner is
never aware of the close surveillance upon him, and Belgrade is as gay a
town in the matter of entertaining and general freedom as, well, as any
other you may choose to name.

During the days when, owing to the unfortunate events which terminated
the reign of the half-imbecile King Alexander and the designing woman
who became his Queen, when England had suspended diplomatic
negotiations, the great stakes held in the country by Statham Brothers
were in a somewhat precarious condition.  For two years Servian finance
had been in anything but a flourishing condition, but now, under the
rule of King Peter, who had done his very utmost to reinstate his
country in its former flourishing position, the confidence of Europe had
been restored, and Statham Brothers were ready to make further
investments.

In Charles Rolfe the great millionaire had the most perfect confidence.
The letter he had sent him to Paris was clear and explicit in its
instructions.  If the concessions were confirmed by the Prime Minister
Pashitch and the Council, a million dinars (or francs) were already
deposited in the National Bank of Servia, and could be drawn at an
hour's notice upon Charlie's signature.

So he drove to the Grand, the hotel with its great garish cafe, its
restaurant where the sterlet is perhaps more delicious than at the
Hermitage in Moscow, and its excellent Tzigane band.  It was evening, so
he ate a light meal, and, fagged out by the journey, retired early.

He tried to sleep, but could not.  The noise and clatter of the cafe
below, the weird strains of the gipsy music, the rattle of the cabs over
the cobbles, all combined to prevent slumber.

And, over all, was the vivid recollection of that rather handsome girl
who had called herself Lorena, and who had declared that the reason of
Statham's peril lay behind the door which he always kept so carefully
secured.

The hours passed slowly.  He thought far more of Maud Petrovitch, and of
what Lorena had told him, than of the business he had to transact on the
morrow.  He was there, in the city where Doctor Petrovitch had been
worshipped almost as a demi-god, where the people cheered lustily as he
drove out, and where he was called "The Servian Patriot."  Where was the
statesman now?  What was the actual truth of that sadden disappearance?

Why had not Maud written?  Sorely she might at least have trusted him
with her secret!

The noise below had died away, and he knew that it must be two o'clock
in the morning, the hour when the cafe closed.  Presently there came a
rap at his door, and the night-porter handed him a telegram.  He tore it
open mechanically, expecting it to be in cipher from old Sam, but
instead saw the signature "Max."

Scanning it eagerly, he held his breath.  The news it contained
staggered him.  It stated that his sister Marion had been discharged
from Cunnington's, and her whereabouts were unknown.

"Have seen Statham, but cannot discover where your sister has gone.  Can
you suggest any friend she may have gone to visit?  What shall I do?  Am
distracted.  Wire immediately."

Marion left Cunnington's!  Discharged, the telegram said.  Was it
possible, he thought, that old Sam would allow her discharge.  He was
certain he would not.  He was his sister's friend, as he was his own.

Max's telegram added further to the burden of mystery upon him.  What
could it all mean?

Marion has evidently left Cunnington's and disappeared!  He tried to
think to whom she would go in her distress.  There was her Aunt Anne at
Wimborne, her cousin Lucy who had married the bank manager at Hereford,
and there was her old schoolfellow Mary Craven who had only recently
married Pelham, the manager of an insurance company in Moorgate Street.

Those three addresses he wrote on a telegraph form, urging Max to make
inquiry and report progress.  This he despatched, and again threw
himself down, full of dark forebodings.

If Marion had really been discharged, she was in some disgrace.  What
could it possibly be?  That it was something which she dared not face
was proved by the fact that she had not confided in Max.  She knew
Maud's place of concealment, without a doubt; therefore, what more
natural than she should have joined her?

The whole affair was a complete enigma, rendered the more tantalising by
the distance which now separated him from London.

Next morning he rose, took his coffee, and went out along the broad
central boulevard, gay and lively in the sunlight, thronged by
well-dressed ladies and smart officers in uniforms on the Russian
model--as bright and pleasant a scene as can be witnessed anywhere
outside Paris.  Up the hill, past the royal palace, he went.  In the
royal garden, separated from the roadway by high iron railings, the band
of the Guards were playing, and over the palace floated the royal
standard, showing that his Majesty was in residence.

Adjoining the palace was a large square castellated building, painted
white, and into this he turned, saluted by the gendarmes on duty.
Ascending a broad flight of steps, he passed through the swing doors,
presented his card, and was shown into the large antechamber of the
President of the Council of Ministers, the strongest man in Servia,
Monsieur Nicholas Pashitch.

The long windows commanded a wide view of the tows and of the broad
Danube shining in the morning sun, while upon the walls of the sombre
apartment with its floor of polished oak and antique furniture covered
with crimson plush, was a portrait of King Peter and several full length
paintings of dead and gone statesmen.

"His Excellency is engaged for a few moments with the Turkish Minister,"
exclaimed a frock-coated secretary in French.  "But he will give m'sieur
audience almost immediately.  His Excellency was going to Pirot, but has
remained in order to see you.  He received your telegram from Budapest."

And so Charlie Rolfe remained, gazing out of the window upon the quaint
eastern town, watching the phantasmagoria of life up and down its
principal thoroughfare.  A company of infantry, headed by their band,
marched past, hot and dusty, on their return from the early morning
manoeuvres which the King had attended, as was his daily habit; and as
it passed out of his sight the long doors opened, and he was ushered
into the adjoining room, the private cabinet of his Excellency the
Premier, an elderly, pleasant-faced old gentleman with a long grey
beard, who rose from his big writing-table to greet his visitor.  The
meeting was a most cordial one, his Excellency inquiring after the
health of his old personal friend Mr Statham.

Then, at the Prime Minister's invitation, Charlie seated himself, and
explained the nature of his mission.  Monsieur Pashitch heard him with
interest to the end.  Then he said: "Only yesterday his Majesty
expressed to me his desire that we should attract British capital into
Servia, therefore all that you tell me is most gratifying to us.  Mr
Statham, on his last visit here, had audience of his Majesty--on the
occasion of the loan--and I think they found themselves perfectly in
accord.  The development of the Kaopanik has long been desired, and I
will this afternoon inform his Majesty of your visit and your
proposals."

Charlie then produced certain documents, reports of two celebrated
mining engineers who had been sent out to Kaopanik by Statham Brothers,
and these they discussed for a long time.

Presently Rolfe said:

"By the way, your Excellency, have you heard of late anything from
Doctor Petrovitch?"

"Petrovitch!" exclaimed the old statesman, starting quickly.
"Petrovitch?  No!" he almost snapped.

"He has been living in England quite recently, but of late--well, of
late I've lost sight of him.  I know," he went on, "that you and he had
some little difference of opinion upon the Customs war with Austria."

"Yes, we did," remarked the grey-bearded old gentleman, with a smile.
"We differed upon one point.  Afterwards, however, I found that my ideas
were unsound, and I admitted it in the Skuptchina.  I heard that
Petrovitch was in London.  The King invited him to come to Belgrade
about six months ago, as he wished to consult him in private, but he
declined the invitation."

"Why?"

"I think he feared on account of a political conspiracy which is known
to have been formed against him.  As you know, the Opposition are his
bitter opponents."

"And they are opponents of his Majesty also," Rolfe remarked.

"Exactly--a fact which for the peace of Servia is most unfortunate."

"Then you have no idea where I could find the Doctor?"

"Not the least.  But--" and he paused, thinking for a moment.

"Well?"

"If I remember aright my wife told me that she had met his daughter Maud
at dinner at the British Legation one night recently."

"Then she's here--in Belgrade!"  Rolfe cried.

"I'm not quite certain.  I did not pay much attention to what she told
me.  I was preoccupied with other things.  But I will ask her, and let
you know.  Or you might ask the wife of the British Minister.  You know
her, of course?"

"Yes," Rolfe answered, excitedly.  "I will call upon her this afternoon.
I'm sure I'm very much indebted to your Excellency for this
information."

And his spirits rose again at the thought that his sweet-faced
well-beloved was safe and well, and that, in all probability, she was
actually in that city.

CHAPTER FORTY.

GIVES A CLUE.

That afternoon, at as early an hour as he decently could, he called at
the British Legation, the big white mansion in the centre of the town.
Both Sir Charles Harrison, the Minister, and his charming wife were
well-known to him, for more than once he had been invited to dine on
previous visits to Belgrade.

The Minister was out, but Lady Harrison received him in the big
drawing-room on the first floor, a handsome apartment filled with
exquisite Japanese furniture and bric-a-brac, for, prior to his
appointment to Belgrade, the Minister had been Secretary of the British
Embassy in Tokio.

The first greetings over, Charlie explained the object of his call.
Whereupon the Minister's wife replied:

"I think Mr Pashitch is mistaken, Mr Rolfe.  I haven't seen Maud
Petrovitch for quite a year.  She was on a visit to her aunt, Madame
Constantinovitch, about a year ago, and used to come here very often."

Charlie's hopes fell again.

"Perhaps the Minister-President has made a mistake.  It may have been at
some other house Madame Pashitch met the Doctor's daughter," he said.

"Well, if she were in Belgrade she surely would come to see me.  All her
friends come to me on Thursdays, as you know," replied the Minister's
wife, as the man brought in tea--with lemon--in the Russian style.

He glanced around the handsome room, and recollected the brilliant
receptions at which he had been present.  The British Legation was one
of the finest mansions in Belgrade, and Sir Charles gave weekly dinners
to the diplomatic corps and his personal friends.  He and his wife
entertained largely, to keep up the prestige of Great Britain amid that
seething area of intrigue, political conspiracy, and general unrest.

Within a small room off the drawing-room, which was Sir Charles' private
den, many a diplomatic secret had been brewed, and many an important
matter affecting the best interests of Servia had been decided.  Surely
the post of Belgrade was one of the most difficult in the whole range of
British diplomacy abroad.

Before Charlie rose to go Sir Charles entered, a middle-aged, merry,
easy-going man, who greeted him cheerily, saying:--

"Hullo, Rolfe!  Who'd have thought of seeing you here? and how is Mr
Statham?  When will he buy us all up to-day?"

Rolfe briefly explained the nature of his mission to the ex-President,
and then, after a few minutes' chat, followed his host into the smaller
room for a cigarette and chat.  Eventually Rolfe, lying back in an
easy-chair, said: "Do you know, Sir Charles, a very curious thing has
happened recently in London?"

"Oh, I see by the papers that lots of curious things have happened," was
the diplomat's reply, as he smiled upon his guest.

"Oh, yes; I know.  But this is a serious matter.  Doctor Petrovitch and
his daughter Maud have disappeared."

Sir Charles raised his eyebrows, and was in a moment serious.

"Disappeared!  There's been nothing about it in the papers."

"No; it is being kept dark.  The police haven't been stirred about it.
It was only a sudden removal from Cromwell Road, but both father,
daughter, and household furniture disappeared."

"How?  In what manner did the furniture disappear?"

Rolfe explained, while Sir Charles sat listening open-mouthed.

"Extraordinary!" he ejaculated, when the younger man concluded.  "What
can be the reason of it.  Petrovitch is an old and dear friend of mine.
Why, I knew him years ago when I was attache here.  He often wrote to
me.  The last letter I had was from London about four months ago."

"And he's my friend also."

"Yes; I know," was the other's reply.  "It was whispered, Rolfe, that
you were in love with the pretty Maud--eh?"

"I don't deny it?"

"Why should you, if you love her."

"But she's disappeared--without a word."

"And you are in search of her?  Most natural.  Well, I'll make inquiries
and ascertain if she's been in Belgrade.  I don't believe she has, or we
should certainly have seen something of her.  My wife is very fond of
her, you know."

"I fear there's been foul play?"  Rolfe remarked.

The Minister shrugged his shoulders.

"It's curious, to say the least, isn't it?" he observed.  There, in
confidence, Charlie told the Minister of Marion's friendship with Maud,
of the strange and mysterious confession on the night of the
disappearance, and her steadfast refusal to betray the girl's secret.

Sir Charles paused and reflected.

"Political intrigue is at the bottom of this--depend upon it, Rolfe," he
said at last.  "Petrovitch has enemies here, unscrupulous enemies, who
would not hesitate to attempt his life.  They fear that if he returns to
power as the King had invited him, they will find themselves prisoners
in the fortress--and that means death, as you know.  When the Doctor
acts, he acts boldly for the benefit of his country.  He would make a
clean sweep of his enemies once and for all."

"Then you think they've anticipated this, and killed him in secret?"
cried Rolfe.

"It is, I fear, quite possible," was the diplomat's reply.

"What causes you to believe this?"

"I possess secret knowledge."

"Of a plot against him?"

"He was fully aware of it himself.  That is why he lived in England,"
the Minister replied.

"But, surely, if he knew this, he might have taken steps for his
self-protection!"  Rolfe exclaimed.  "The fact that his furniture was
spirited away to some unknown place makes it almost appear as though he
was in accord with the conspirators."

"No; I think not.  The conspirators removed his furniture in order to
prevent undue inquiries as to the Doctor's disappearance.  The emptying
of the house may have been one to make it appear to the police that the
Doctor had suddenly removed--perhaps to avoid his creditors."

Rolfe shook his head.  His opinion hardly coincided with that of the
British diplomat.  Besides, Max Barclay's story of having seen a man
there closely resembling him wanted explanation.  With what motive had
an unknown man represented him on the night in question?

"Maud Petrovitch has never written to you?" asked Harrison.

"Not a line."

The Minister pursed his lips.

"Well," he said, "I'm perfectly sure if she's been in Belgrade she would
certainly have come to see us.  My wife used to have frequent letters
from her in London."

"I have not told Lady Harrison the reason of my inquiry--or any of the
facts," Rolfe said.  "I thought I would leave it to you to tell her if
you think proper.  Up to the present, the Doctor's disappearance has
been kept secret between my friend Max Barclay, who was the Doctor's
most intimate chum in London, and myself."

"At present I shall not tell my wife," declared the diplomat.  He was a
man of secrets, and knew how to keep one.  "Who is Max Barclay?" asked
the Minister, after a pause.  Rolfe explained, but said nothing
regarding his engagement to his sister Marion.  To it all Sir Charles
listened attentively, without comment.

At last, after a long silence, he said:

"Well, look here, Rolfe.  A sudden thought has occurred to me.  I think
it possible that to-morrow, in a certain quarter, I shall be able to
make a confidential inquiry regarding the whereabouts of the Doctor.
All that you've told me interests me exceedingly, because I have all
along believed that very shortly Petrovitch was returning to power and
join forces with Pashitch."

"But didn't they quarrel a short time ago?"  Rolfe remarked.

"Oh, a mere trifle.  It was nothing.  The Austrian press made a great
stir about it, as they always do.  All news from Servia emanates from
the factory across the river yonder, at Semlin.  If the journalists
dared to put foot on, Servian soil they'd soon find themselves under
arrest, I can tell you.  No, the broad lines of policy of both
Petrovitch and Pashitch are identical.  They intend to develop the
country by the introduction of foreign capital.  The king himself told
me so at an audience I had a month ago.  He then told me, in confidence,
that he had invited the Doctor to return and rejoin the Ministry.  That
is why I firmly believe that the poor Doctor, one of the best and most
straightforward statesmen in Europe, has fallen a victim to his
enemies."

"Then you will set to work to discover what is known among the
Opposition?" urged the young man.

"I promise you I will.  But, of course, in strictest confidence," was
the Minister's reply.  "Petrovitch is my friend, as well as yours.  I
know only too well of the bitter enmity towards him in some quarters,
especially among the partisans of the late king and a certain section of
the Opposition in the Skuptchina.  Mention of his name there causes
cheers from the Government benches, but howls from the enemies of law
and order.  There was, some three years ago, a dastardly plot against
his life, as you know."

"No, I don't know it.  I have never heard about it," was Rolfe's reply.

"Ah! he never speaks about it, of course," Sir Charles said,
reflectively.  "While driving out at Topschieder with his little orphan
niece, of whom he was very fond, a bomb was thrown at the carriage.  The
poor child was blown to atoms, the horses were maimed, the carriage
smashed to matchwood, and the coachman so injure that he died within an
hour.  The Doctor alone escaped with nothing more serious than a cut
across the cheek.  But that terrible death of his dead sister's child
was a terrible blow to him, and he has not been since in Belgrade.
Because of that, I expect, he has hesitated to obey the king's command
to return to office."

"Awful!  I never knew of that.  Maud has never told me," said Rolfe.
"What blackguards to kill an innocent child!  Was the man who threw the
bomb caught?"

"Yes.  And the conspiracy was revealed by me activity of the secret
police.  They made a report to the Minister of Justice, who showed it to
me in confidence."

"Then you actually know who threw the explosive?"

"I know also who was responsible for the dastardly conspiracy--who aided
and abetted it, and who furnished the assassins with money and promised
a big reward if they encompassed the Doctor's death!" said the Minister,
slowly and seriously.

"You do!  Who?" cried Rolfe.

"It was someone well-known to you," was his reply.  "The inquiries made
by the Servian secret police led them far afield from Belgrade.  They
traced the conspiracy to its source--a source which would amaze you, as
it would stagger the world.  And if I am not much mistaken, Rolfe, this
second plot has been formed and carried out by the same person whose
first plot failed!"

"A person I know?" gasped the young man.

CHAPTER FORTY ONE.

THE GATEWAY OF THE EAST.

The diplomat would say nothing more.  When pressed by Charlie Rolfe he
said that it was a surmise.  Until the truth was proved he refused to
speak more plainly.

"You declare that the plot by which an innocent child died was formed by
a friend of mine!" the younger man exclaimed.

"I tell you that such is my firm belief," Sir Charles repeated.
"To-morrow I will endeavour to discover whether the same influence that
caused the explosion of the bomb at Topschieder is responsible for the
Doctor's disappearance."

"But cannot you be more explicit?" asked Rolfe.  "Who is the assassin--
the murderer of children?"

"At present I can say no more than what I have already told you," was
the diplomat's grave response.

"You believe that the same motive has led to the Doctor's disappearance
as was the cause of the bomb outrage at Topschieder?"

"I do."

"Then much depends upon the Doctor's death?"

"Very much.  His enemies would reap a large profit."

"His enemies in the Skuptchina, you mean?"

"Those--and others."

"He had private enemies also--secret ones that were even more dangerous
than the blatant political orators."

"Then private vengeance was the cause?"

"No--not exactly; at least, I think not," Sir Charles replied.  "But
please ask no more.  I will tell you the truth when I have established
it."

"I wish I could discover where Maud is.  Surely it is strange that the
Prime Minister's wife should have said she met her lately here, in
Belgrade."

"Maud Petrovitch is not in Servia.  I am certain of that point."

"Why?"

"Because her father would never allow her to return here after that
tragedy at Topschieder."

"The assassin--the man who threw the bomb.  Where is he?"

"In the fortress--condemned to a life sentence," the diplomat answered.
"He was caught while running away from the scene--a raw peasant from
Valjevo, hired evidently to hurl the bomb.  He was subjected to a
searching examination, but would never reveal by whom he was employed.
He was tried and condemned to solitary confinement, which he now is
undergoing.  You know the horrors of the fortress here, on the Danube,
with its subterranean cells--eh?"

"I've heard of them," responded the younger man.  "But even that fate is
too humane for a man who would deliberately kill an innocent child!"

"A life sentence in the fortress is scarcely humane," the British
Minister remarked grimly.  "No one has ever entered some of those
underground dungeons built by the Turks centuries ago.  Their horrors
can only be surmised.  To all outsiders, who have wished to inspect the
place, the Minister of Justice has refused admission."

"Then the assassin has only received his deserts."

"The person who formed the plot and used the ignorant peasant as his
cat's-paw should be there too--or even instead of him," declared Sir
Charles angrily.  "The peasant suffers, while the real culprit gets off
scot-free and unknown."

"Then he is still unknown?" exclaimed Rolfe in surprise.

"Save to perhaps three persons, of whom I am one."

"And also the man who threw the bomb!"

"I have heard that the solitary confinement in a dark cell already
worked its effect upon him.  He is hopelessly insane."

Rolfe drew a long breath, and glanced around the cosy room with its long
row of well-filled book-cases, its big writing-table, and its smaller
tables filled with Japanese bric-a-brac, of which Sir Charles was an
ardent collector.

In the silence that fell the footman tapped at the door and presented a
card.  Then Rolfe, declaring that he must go, rose, gripped the
grey-haired Minister's hand, and extracting from him a promise to tell
the truth as soon as he had established it, followed the smart English
footman down the stairs.

That night, as he sat amid the clatter and music of the brilliantly lit
Grand Cafe, he reflected deeply on all that had been told him, wondering
who was the friend who had been responsible for the outrage, which had
induced the Doctor to forsake his native land never to return.  Servia
was a country of intrigue and unrest, as is every young country.  He
looked around the tables at the gay crowd of smart officers with their
ribbons and crosses upon their breasts and their well-dressed womenkind,
and wondered whether any fresh conspiracy was in progress.

The rule of King Peter--maligned though that monarch had been--had
brought beneficent reforms to Servia.  And yet there was an opposition
who never ceased to hurl hard epithets against him, and to charge him
with taking part in a plot, of the true meaning of which he certainly
had had no knowledge.

Belgrade is a city in which plots against the monarchy are hinted at and
whispered in the corners of drawing-rooms, where diplomacy is a mass of
intrigue, a city of spies and sycophants, of concession-hunters and
political cliques.  Gay, pleasant, and easy-going, with its fine
boulevard, its pretty Kalamegdan Garden, and its spick-and-span new
streets, it is different to any other capital of Europe; more full of
tragedy, more full of plot and counter-plot.

Austria is there ever seeking by her swarm of secret agents to stir up
strife and to organise demonstrations against the reigning dynasty.
Germany is there seeking influence and making promises, while Bulgaria
is ever watchful; Turkey is silent and spectral, and Great Britain looks
on neutral, but noting every move of the deep diplomatic juggling of the
Powers.

At night amid the clatter, the laughter, and the gipsy music of the
Grand Cafe, with its billiard tables in the centre and its restaurant
adjoining, the stranger would never dream of its close proximity to the
tragedy of a throne.  Just as the bright lights and calm, moonlit sea
throw a glamour over that plague spot Monte Carlo, until the visitor
believes that no evil can lurk in that terrestrial paradise, so in
Belgrade is everything so pleasant, so happy, so careless that the
stranger would never dream that the whole city sits ever upon the edge
of a volcano, and that the red flag of revolt is ready at any, moment to
be hoisted.

Charlie Rolfe knew Belgrade, and knew the tragedy that underlay its
brightness.  What greater tragedy could there be than the death of the
innocent child blown to atoms by the bomb?

Who could be the culprit whom Sir Charles had told him was his "friend."
He had known the Doctor well, but not intimately as Max Barclay had
done.  Curious that Max had told him nothing concerning that tragic
incident which had caused the Servian statesman and patriot to turn his
back upon his beloved country and live in studious seclusion in England.
Max had told him many things, but had never mentioned that subject.

Was Max Barclay the "friend" to whom Sir Charles had referred.  Was it
really possible?  He held his breath, contemplating the end of his
half-smoked cigar and wondering.

It was a strange suspicion.  Of late, ever since Max had charged him
with having been present at Cromwell Road on the night of the
disappearance, he had somehow held aloof from the man to whom Marion was
so devoted.

And now?  Even she had disappeared!  What could it mean?

Did Max Barclay really know how and why Marion had disappeared, and for
motives of his own was making a mystery?

The message from Barclay worried him.  Marion was missing.  Why had she
left Cunnington's?  She must have left of her own accord, he felt
confident.  She would never be discharged.  Sam Statham would never, for
a moment, allow that.

A tall man with a fair, pointed beard approached him, raised his hat,
and gripped his hand.  It was Drukovitch, the director of the National
Theatre, and a friend of his.  The new-comer seated himself at the
table, and the waiter brought a tiny glass of "slivovitza," or plum gin,
that liqueur so dear to the Servian palate.  Drukovitch was one of the
best-known and most popular men in Belgrade; a thorough-going
cosmopolitan, and a man of the world.  Sometimes he went to London, and
whenever there Charlie entertained him at his club, or they went to the
theatre and supped at the Savoy.

As they chatted, Rolfe explaining that he was in Servia upon financial
matters as usual, Drukovitch nodded to the officers and civilians whom
he knew, many of them famous for the part they had played in the recent
_coup d'etat_.  Some of them, indeed, wore the white-enamelled cross,
which decoration marked them as partisans of the dynasty of the
Karageorge.  And meanwhile the orchestra were playing the popular waltz
from "The Merry Widow," the air haunting everybody and everyone.

That night there was a court hall at the Palace, and the forthcoming
event was upon everyone's lips.  There was seldom any entertainment at
the New Konak, for his Majesty led a very quiet life, the almost ascetic
life of a soldier--riding out at dawn, attending to duties of state
during the day, and retiring early.

Perhaps the most maligned man in all Europe, King Peter of Servia was,
nevertheless, known to those intimate around the throne to be a most
conscientious ruler, fully aware of all his responsibilities, and
striving ever to pacify the various political factions, sustaining the
prestige of Servia abroad, and ameliorating the condition of his people
at home.

The truth regarding King Peter had never been written.  Of libels and
vile calumnies there had been volumes, but no journalist had ever dared
to put into print the real facts of King Peter's innocence of any
connivance at the dastardly murder of Alexander and Draga.

Those who knew the real facts admired King Peter as a man and fearless
patriot, but those who gathered their information from sensational
newspapers and scurrilous books emanating from Austria believed every
lie that the back-stairs scribes chose to write.

Drukovitch was one of the men who knew the truth, and many a time he had
explained them to his friend, who, in turn, had told old Sam Statham,
the hard-headed misanthrope whose prejudices were so strong, and yet the
chords of whose heart-strings were so readily touched.

Sam had lent money to Servia--huge sums.  And why?  Because he knew his
Majesty personally, and had heard from his own lips the story of his
tragic difficulties and his high aspirations.

Once, indeed, in that silent study in Park Lane he had been reading a
confidential report from Belgrade, predicting a black outlook, when he
turned to his secretary and said:

"Rolfe.  There will be trouble in Servia.  But even though I may lose
the million sterling I have loaned it will not trouble me.  I have tried
to assist an honest man who is at the same time a philanthropist and a
king."

Charlie Rolfe recollected these words at that moment as he sat amid the
noise and chatter of the cafe, where, above every other sound, rose the
sweet, tuneful strains of the waltz that had within the past few weeks
gripped all Europe.

There was something bizarre, something incongruous with it all.

He was thinking of his lost love--his sweet-faced Maud with the unruly
wisp of hair straying across her white brow.

Where was she?  Ay, where was she?

CHAPTER FORTY TWO.

ADVANCES A THEORY.

Next day, and the next, Charlie called upon the British Minister, but
could obtain no further information.

Sir Charles had failed to establish his suspicion, and therefore
declined to say anything further.

Rolfe, on his part, had learned from Drukovitch the full details of the
dastardly attempt upon the Doctor's life at Topschieder, and how the
little child had been blown to atoms.  The escape of Petrovitch had been
little short of miraculous, and it was now whispered that the conspiracy
had no political significance, but was an act of private vengeance.

Whatever its motive might have been, it had had the desired effect of
preventing the Doctor from returning to Servia.

In various quarters Rolfe made diligent inquiry, and established without
a doubt that Maud Petrovitch had within the past ten days or so been in
Belgrade.

A young officer of the King's guard, a Lieutenant Yankovitch, had seen
her in the Zar Duschanowa Uliza.  He described her as wearing a white
serge gown and a big black hat.  She was walking with a short, elderly,
grey-haired woman, undoubtedly a foreigner--English or American.  He was
marching with his company, or would have stopped and spoken to her.

Another person discovered by Drukovitch was a domestic who had once been
in the Doctor's service.  She declared that early one morning when going
from her home to the house in the Krunska where she was now employed,
she met her young mistress Maud with the same elderly woman--a woman
rather shabbily-dressed.  The pair were passing the Russian Legation,
and she stopped and spoke.

The young lady had told her that she was only on a flying visit to
Belgrade, and that she was leaving again on the morrow.  To the
servant's inquiries regarding the Doctor his daughter was silent, as
though she did not wish to mention her father.

According to the servant's description.  Mademoiselle Maud looked very
wan and pale, as though she had passed many sleepless nights full of
anxiety and dread.

The Prime Minister's wife had no recollection of telling her husband
about meeting the Doctor's daughter.  Somebody else must have mentioned
it to the grey-bearded statesman, who, full of the cares of office, had
forgotten who it had been.

A third person who had seen Maud, however, was one of the agents of
secret police on duty at the railway station.  It was this man's work to
watch arriving passengers, and detail agents to watch any suspected to
be foreign spies.  According to his report, made to the chief of police,
Mademoiselle Petrovitch arrived in Belgrade late one night with an
elderly Englishwoman and a tall, thin man, probably a German.  They
hired a cab and drove out to an address near the Botanical Gardens, on
the opposite side of the city.  Recognising who she was, he did not
instruct an agent to follow her.  The two ladies returned to the railway
station four days later and left again by the Orient express for
Budapest.

The officials of the international express, in passing through Servia,
are compelled to furnish to the secret police the names and
nationalities of all passengers travelling.  When the train arrives in
Belgrade the commissario is always handed the list, which is filed for
reference.  Upon the list on that particular day was shown the names of
Mademoiselle Maud Pavlovitch, of Belgrade, and Mrs Wood, of London.

The girl had only slightly disguised her name.

These results of Charlie's inquiry showed quite plainly that his
well-beloved was alive, and that she had been in Servia with some secret
object.  The police were unaware of the exact address near the Botanical
Gardens where the couple stayed.  It is only within their province to
watch suspected foreigners.  Of Servians they take no account.

Therefore, beyond the facts already stated, Rolfe could discover
nothing.

Day after day he remained in Belgrade, sometimes spending the afternoon
by going for a trip across the Danube to that dull and rather
uninteresting frontier town of Hungary, Semlin, and always hoping to be
able to discover something further--some clue to the strange
disappearance of the Doctor, or the real reason why his Maud was so
determined to hold aloof from him.

Thrice he received wild telegrams from Max Barclay, asking for
information as to where he might best seek news of Marion.  News of her?
Her brother was just as staggered by her disappearance as was her
lover.

He telegraphed that she might perhaps be at the house of an old servant
of their fathers at Boston, in Lincolnshire.  But next day came a report
despatched from Boston that the good man and his wife had heard nothing
of their late master's daughter.

Again to Bridlington he sent Max, to some friends there; but from that
place came a similar response.  Marion was, like Maud, in hiding!  But
why?

In the bright morning sunshine he strolled the streets, which were so
full of quaint and interesting types.  There in Belgrade, the gateway of
the East, one saw the Servian peasant in his high boots, his white shirt
worn outside his trousers, and his round, high cap of astrakhan.  The
better-class peasant wore his brown homespun, while the women with the
gay coloured kerchiefs on their heads wore their heavy silver girdles
and their ornaments reminiscent of the Turkish occupation.  Big, burly
men in scarlet waistbands and fur caps, women in pretty peasant costumes
from the distant provinces, officers gay with ribbons and crosses, and
ladies in gowns and hats that spoke mutely of Bond Street and the Rue de
la Paix; all were seen in the ever moving panorama of that cosmopolitan
little capital where East meets West.

The financial business which Charlie had come there to transact had
already been concluded, to the mutual satisfaction of his Excellency the
Prime Minister and of the grey-faced old misanthrope seated in the
silent room in Park Lane.  Many cables in cipher had been exchanged, and
Charlie had placed his signature to half a dozen documents, which in due
course would be countersigned with old Sam's scrawly calligraphy.  The
stake of Statham Brothers in Servia represented considerably over one
million sterling, and nobody had been more conscious of old Sam's
readiness to assist in the development of the country's rich resources
than his Majesty the King.

Upon a side table in Statham's study in Park Lane was a big autographed
portrait in a silver frame, which King Peter had given him at his last
audience.  Therefore it was with feelings of gratification that Charlie
heard from the Minister-President's lips the verbal message which the
King had sent--a message of thanks to Mr Rolfe for doing all that he
had done to arrive at a satisfactory arrangement whereby with English
capital Servia's wealth was to be exploited and work provided for her
industrial population.

Though he knew that Maud Petrovitch was no longer in Belgrade, yet he
still lingered on at the Grand Hotel amid all its clatter, its hustle,
and its music.  Truth to tell, he earnestly desired to obtain the truth
from Sir Charles Harrison.  For that dastardly attempt at Topschieder a
friend of his was responsible!

It was the identity of the friend in question that he was deeply anxious
to establish, so that in future he would know whom to doubt and whom to
trust.

Was Max Barclay really his friend?

Hour upon hour he reflected upon that problem.  He recollected incidents
which, in his present state of mind, filled him with misgivings.  Why
had he openly charged him with having been present at the house in
Cromwell Road after the disappearance of the Doctor and his daughter?
Indeed, had he not practically charged him with opening the Doctor's
safe and abstracting its contents?  He had not made the charge directly,
it was true, but his remarks had certainly been made in a spirit of
antagonistic suspicion.

A long letter from Max explained the sudden disappearance of Marion from
Cunnington's, and begged him to give all information regarding any
likely quarter where the girl had sought refuge.  It was now plain
enough to Charlie that his sister had been discharged from the
establishment in Oxford Street--and in disgrace!  In what disgrace?

When he read the letter in his room at the hotel, he crushed it in his
hand with an imprecation upon his lips.  Cunnington should answer to him
for this indignity.  He would compel the fellow to tell him the truth.
His sister's honour was at stake.

Disgraced by her sudden discharge, she had disappeared.  She had, no
doubt, been ashamed to face the man who loved her, ashamed, too, to
write to her brother.  Instead, she preferred to go away and efface
herself, as, alas! so many London shop-girls have done before her.

Charlie Rolfe knew the cruelty practised by many a shop-keeper in London
in discharging their female employees at a moment's notice.  For a man
it matters little.  Perhaps, indeed, it is best for both parties.  But
for a helpless girl without friends, without money, and without home to
be cast suddenly upon the great world of London, filled as it is with
lures and temptations, is a grave sin which no tradesman ought to
commit.  And yet there are to-day in London and its suburbs hundreds of
smug, top-hatted, frock-coated tradesmen, who, though pillars of their
chapels and churches and stalking round the aisles with their plush
collecting-bags on Sundays, will on six days in the week cast forth any
poor girl in their employ without a grain of sympathy or compunction
merely because she may break a rule, or even because she does not lie to
customers sufficiently well to induce them to make purchases.

The general public are ignorant of the tyranny of shop-life in London.
There have been strikes--strikes quickly suppressed because, by lifting
his finger the employer is overwhelmed with assistants glad to live on a
mere bread and butter wage--and those strikes have been treated
humorously by the evening papers.  Ah! the tragedy of it all.

Charles Rolfe, though secretary and trusted factotum of a millionaire,
knew it all.  His sister had been in a snug "billet," one from which he
had fondly believed she could never have been dislodged.

But the hard, bitter truth was now apparent.  Even his own brotherly
protection had availed her nothing.  She had been consigned to disgrace.

It was with such bitter thoughts he resolved to return to London.  He
went to the telegraph office and sent a long message to Sam Statham,
explanatory of what had occurred, and beseeching his intervention with
Cunnington.

Through the night he waited, but received no response.

Then he went round in the morning to bid Sir Charles adieu.

"Well, Rolfe!" exclaimed the representative of the British Government;
"I'm sorry you're off so quickly.  My wife was asking you to dine
to-morrow night--usual weekly dinner, you know."

"And have you discovered nothing regarding Petrovitch?" asked Charlie
quickly.

"Well," replied the diplomat, after a moment's hesitation, "to tell the
truth, I have."

"You have!" gasped the young man eagerly.  "What?"  The other knit his
brows, and was for a moment silent.

"Something--something!" he said, "that is astounding.  I--I cannot give
it credence.  It is all too amazing--too tragic--too utterly
incomprehensible."

CHAPTER FORTY THREE.

THE LOST BELOVED.

Weeks had dragged by.  To Max Barclay they had been weeks of keen
anxiety and unceasing search to discover traces of his lost beloved.

Once, and only once, had he seen Jean Adam, against whom Sam Statham had
warned him.  He had met the man of brilliant financial ideas by
appointment at lunch at the Savoy, and had told him plainly that he had
reconsidered the whole matter of the Turkish concession, and had decided
to have nothing to do with it.

His excuse was lack of funds at that moment.  To the old millionaire he
owed a good deal for giving him the "tip" regarding the plausible
Anglo-Frenchman.  Adam, alias Adams, received Max's decision without the
alteration of a muscle of his face.  He was a perfect actor, and
betrayed no sign of surprise or of chagrin.

"Well, my dear fellow," he remarked, raising his glass of Brauneberger
and contemplating it before placing it to his lips; "you're losing the
chance of a lifetime.  If Baron Hirsch had been alive he wouldn't have
allowed such a thing to slip.  When old Statham knows of it he'll move
heaven and earth to come in."

Max was silent.  He did not allow his companion to know that Statham had
been responsible for his refusal to join in the project.

"I'm sorry, too," he said.  "But just now I'm rather pressed.  I was
hard hit last week over those Siberians."

"But the money required is a mere bagatelle.  I have mine ready."

"I regret," answered Max, "but my decision is final."

"Very well, my dear fellow," replied Adam lightly.  "I don't want to
persuade you.  There are a thousand men in the City who'll be ready to
put up money to-morrow morning."

And the pair finished their luncheon and parted, Adam, of course,
entirely unsuspicious of the part Statham had played in upsetting his
deeply-laid plans.

To every address which Marion's brother had furnished he had gone at
post-haste, only to draw blank every time.  Charlie had, at Statham's
instructions, gone first to Constantinople, then to Odessa and Batoum,
after which he had returned direct to London.

In Odessa he had been met by a special messenger from the London office
bearing a number of documents, and his business in that city had
occupied him nearly a fortnight.  Therefore it was early in October
when, arriving by the evening train at Charing Cross from Paris, he took
a cab straight to Park Lane.

In greeting him, old Sam was rather curious in his manner, he thought.
There was a lack of cordiality.  Usually, when he came off a long
journey, the old fellow ordered Levi to bring the decanter of whisky and
a syphon.  But on this occasion the head of the great financial house
merely sat in his chair at his desk and heard his secretary's report
without even suggesting that he might be fagged by his rush across
Europe.

Rolfe related, briefly and plainly, the various points upon which he had
failed, and those upon which he had been successful.  Some of his
decisions had brought many thousands of pounds into the already
overflowing coffers of Statham Brothers, and yet the old man made no
sign.  He heard all without any comment save now and then a grunt of
satisfaction.

The younger man could not disguise from himself the fact that the
millionaire was not himself.  His face was paler and more transparent,
while the green-shaded electric lamp shed upon it a hue that was unreal
and ghastly.  Old Levi, too, as he flitted in and out like a
white-breasted shadow, seemed to regard him with unusual suspicion and
distrust.

What could it all mean?

He looked from one to the other in puzzled surprise.

He was unaware that only on the previous night a thin, dark, bearded man
had been ushered into that very room and had sat for two hours with the
great financier.  His countenance, his gestures, the cut of his clothes,
all showed plainly that he was not English.  Besides, the consultation
was in French, a language which old Sam knew fairly well.

That man was a spy, and he was from Belgrade.

From the moment Charlie Rolfe had descended at the station to the moment
he had left it, secret observation had been kept upon his movements.
And to furnish the report to his master the spy had travelled from
Servia to London.  Samuel Statham trusted nobody.  Even his most
confidential assistant was spied upon, and his own reports compared with
those of a spy's.

More than once, as Charlie Rolfe, all unconscious of the surveillance
upon him, related what had occurred in King Peter's capital, the old man
smiled--in disbelief.  This the younger man could not understand.  He
was in ignorance of the great conspiracy in progress, or of the
millionaire's ulterior motives.  The old man's face was sphinx-like, as
it ever was--a countenance in which no single trait was visible, neither
was there human joy or human sympathy.  It was the face of a statue--the
face of a man whose greed and avarice had rendered him pitiless.

And yet, strangely enough, this very man was, to Charlie's knowledge, a
philanthropist in secret, giving away thousands yearly to the deserving
poor without any thought of laudatory comment of either press or public.

Samuel Statham was not well; of that Charlie felt assured.  He noticed
the slight trembling of the thin white hands, the fixed, anxious look in
his eyes, the curl of the thin grey lips, all of which caused him
anxiety.  In his ignorance he had grown to be greatly fond of the
eccentric old man who pulled so many of the financial wires of Europe
and whose word could cause the stock markets to fluctuate.  A scribbled
word of his that night would be felt in Wall Street on the morrow,
whilst the pulses of the Bourse of Berlin, Paris, and Vienna were ready
at any moment to respond instantly to the transactions of Statham
Brothers, often so gigantic as to cause a sensation.

Presently Sam Statham commenced his cross-questioning regarding the
exact situation in Belgrade, the attitude of the Minister-President, and
the strength of the Opposition in that wooden shed-like
Parliament-house, the Skuptchina, of whom he had seen, and what
information he had gathered regarding the tariff-war with Austria.

To all the questions Charlie replied in a manner which showed him to be
perfectly alive to all the requirements of the firm.  To those in Old
Broad Street, City, secret information regarding the future policy of
Servia means the gain or loss of many thousands, and though during his
sojourn in the City of the White Fortress his mind had been so perturbed
over his own private affairs, he had certainly not neglected those of
the great firm who employed him.

The old man gave little sign of approbation, and after nearly an hour
suddenly dismissed him abruptly, saying:

"Very well.  You're tired, I expect.  You'd better go to dinner.  I'll
see you in the morning."

"There's another matter I wanted to speak to you about," Charlie said,
still remaining in his chair, watching the old fellow as he turned
towards his desk and drew some papers on to his blotting-pad.

"Eh?  What?" asked the old fellow sharply, turning again to the other.

"You did very well in Odessa.  I was very pleased to receive that last
cable from you.  Souvaroff grew frightened evidently--afraid I should
withdraw and let the whole business go into air."  And he chuckled to
himself in delight at how he had worsted a powerful Russian banker who
was his enemy.

"It was not of that I wish to speak," remarked Rolfe quietly.  "It was
with regard to my sister Marion."

The old fellow started uneasily at his secretary's words.  "Eh?  Your
sister?" he said.  "What about her?"

"She's left Cunnington's," Charlie said.  "According to what I hear,
she's been discharged in some disgrace."

"Ah! yes," was the old man's response, as though recalling the fact.
"I've heard so.  Your friend Barclay came to see me, and told me some
long story about her.  I wrote to Cunnington, but I haven't seen any
reply from him.  It may have gone to the office."

"My sister has left Oxford Street--and hidden herself, in disgrace.  We
can't find her."

"Then if you can't find her, Rolfe, I don't see how I can assist you,"
remarked the elder man.  "Girls entertain strange fancies, you know--
especially the sentimental-minded.  Been reading novels, perhaps--eh?
Was she given to that?"

"The girls at Cunnington's have little time for reading," he said,
piqued at Statham's careless manner.  Hitherto he had believed that the
old man was genuinely interested in her, but he now saw that her future
was to him nothing.  He was too much occupied in piling up wealth to
trouble his head over a girl's distress, even though that girl might be
the sister of the man who by his acute business foresight often won for
him thousands in a single day.

Charlie rose, full of suppressed anger.  He did not notice the look of
anxiety and shame upon the old man's face, for his head was bowed
beneath the lamplight as he pretended to fumble with his papers.

"Perhaps your sister was tired of the place--too much hard work.
Thought to better herself."

"My sister was, like myself, much indebted to you, Mr Statham," was
Rolfe's reply.  "If she has been discharged in disgrace, it is, I feel
confident, through no fault of her own.  Therefore, I beg of you, to ask
fit.  Cunnington to make full inquiry."

"What is the use?  It is Cunnington himself who engages the hands and
discharges them," replied Statham evasively.  "I can't interfere."

"But," Rolfe argued, "for the sake of my sister's good name you will
surely do me this one small favour?"

"I have already seen Barclay, who says he's engaged to her.  Call on
him, and he'll explain what I have already said and the inquiry I have
already made," replied the old man in growing impatience.

"But weeks have gone by, and you've received no reply from Cunnington.
He does not usually treat you with such discourtesy."

"I can only think that he acted as his own judgment directed him," the
millionaire replied.  "You know how strict the rules are that govern
shop-assistants, and I suppose he could not favour your sister any more
than the others."

"Marion wanted no favours," he declared.  "She never asked one of
anybody at Oxford Street.  She only desires justice and troth--and I
mean to have them for her."

"Then go and see Cunnington for yourself," snapped the old man.  "I've
done all I can do.  If your sister chooses to go away and hide herself,
how can I help it?"

"But she was sent away?" cried Rolfe in anger.  "Sent away in disgrace,
and I intend to discover what charge there is against her--and the truth
concerning it?"

"Dear me, Rolfe!" snapped the old man impatiently.  "Do go home, for
heaven's sake.  You're tired and hungry--consequently out of temper."

"Yes," he cried, "I am out of temper because you refuse to render my
sister justice!  But she shall have it--she shall?"

And he stalked out of the room and closed the door noisily behind him.

Then, after the door had closed, old Sam raised his head, and his eyes
followed the young man.  In them was a look such as was seldom seen
there--a look of double cunning which spoke mutely of false and
double-dealing.

CHAPTER FORTY FOUR.

TELLS OF A DETERMINATION.

Entering his chambers in Jermyn Street half an hour later, Rolfe was met
by the faithful Green, to whom he gave orders to "ring up" Mr Barclay
at Dover Street.

Then he went along to his room to wash and dress.

A few moments later Green came in, saying:

"Mr Barclay left town five days ago, sir.  He's up at Kilmaronock."

His master made no reply for some moments.  Then at last he said:

"Pack my suit-case, and 'phone to Euston to reserve me a seat to Perth
on the ten-five to-morrow morning."

"Yes, sir."

"And to everybody except my sister, if she calls, you don't know where
I've gone--you understand?"

"Perfectly, sir."

And the man set about packing up his master's traps.

"You may as well put in a dinner-coat Max may have friends," Rolfe said.

"Very well, sir."

His master dressed quickly and went alone to the club for a late dinner.
Most of his friends were away shooting, therefore he idled alone for an
hour over the paper and then returned to his chambers.

Next morning he scribbled a hasty note to Mr Statham, making an excuse
for his sudden absence, and directly after ten was seated in the Scotch
express travelling out of London.

At eight that evening he stepped out upon the big, dark station at
Perth, sent a telegram to the Crown Inn at Kilmaronock village for a
"machine," as a fly is called, and then took the slow branch line that
runs by Crieff and skirts Loch Earn to the head of Glen Ogle, where lay
the old castle and fine shooting of which Max Barclay was possessor.

A drive of three miles on the road beside Loch Voil brought him to the
lodge-gates, and then another mile up through the park he came to the
great portico of the castle.

It was nearly midnight.  Lights were still in the billiard-room of the
fine old castellated mansion, which Max's father had modernised and
rendered so comfortable, and when Charlie rang, Burton, the butler,
could not suppress an exclamation of surprise.

In a few moments, however, Charlie burst into the room where Max and
five other men were playing "snooker" before retiring.

The host's surprise was great, but the visitor received a hearty
welcome, and an hour later, when the guests had gone to their rooms, the
two friends stood alone together in the long old-fashioned drawing-room
which, without a woman's artistic hand to keep things in order, was
rapidly going to decay.

A big wood fire blazed cheerfully in the wide old-fashioned grate, for
October evenings in the Highlands are damp and chill, and as the two men
stood before it they looked at one another, both hesitating to speak.

Across Charlie's mind flashed those suspicions which had oppressed him
in Belgrade.  Was the man before him his enemy or his friend?

"Well," he blurted forth, "I've come straight up to see you, Max.  I
only arrived home last night.  I want to see you concerning Marion."

His companion's lips hardened.

"Marion!" he exclaimed.  "I have done all I can.  I've left no effort
untried.  I have sought the aid of the best confidential inquiry agency
in London, and all to no avail.  She's disappeared--as completely as
Maud has done!"

"Yes, I know," replied her brother, thrusting his hands deep into the
trousers-pockets of his blue serge travelling-suit.  "I've seen
Statham."

"And so have I.  He wrote to Cunnington's, but the latter has not
replied.  I saw Cunnington myself."

"And what did he say?"

"The fellow refused to say anything," he replied in a hard tone.

Silence again fell between the pair.

The long, old-fashioned room, with its blue china, its chintz coverings,
its grand piano, and its bowls of autumn roses, though full of quaint
charm, was weird and unsuited to the home of a bachelor.  Indeed,
Kilmaronock was a white elephant to Max.  He received a fair rental from
the farms on the estate, but he never went near the place except for
sport for six weeks or so each autumn.  The old place possessed some
bitter memories for him, for his mother had died there quite suddenly of
heart disease on the night of a large dinner-party.  He was only
eighteen then, but he remembered it too well.  It was that tragic memory
which had caused him to abandon the place except when he invited a few
of his friends to shoot over the estate.

"Let's go into my own room to talk," he suggested.  "It's more cosy
there."  As a man hates all drawing-rooms, so did Max Barclay detest
his.  It was for him full of recollections of his dear dead mother.

And so they passed along the corridor to Max's own little den in the
east wing of the house, a pleasant little room overlooking the deep
shady glen from whence rose the constant music of the ever-rippling
burn.

As Charlie sank into the big armchair near the fire Max pushed the
cigar-box towards him.  Then he seated himself, saying:

"Now, old fellow, what are we to do?  Marion must be found."

"She must.  But you've failed, you say?"

"Utterly," he sighed.  "She was discharged from Cunnington's--
disgraced!"

"Why?"

Max shrugged his shoulders.  Both men knew well that the reason of the
girl's disappearance was the shame of her dismissal.  Both men knew also
that by lifting his finger Sam Statham could have reinstated her--or
could at least have had inquiry made as to the truth of what had really
occurred.

But he had refused.  Therefore both were indignant and angry.  During
the next half-hour they discussed the matter fully and seriously, and
were agreed upon one main point, that Statham had acted against them
both in refusing his aid to clear the unfortunate girl.

"Whatever fault she has committed," declared Max, "the truth should be
told.  I went to him acknowledging my love for her and beseeching his
aid.  And yet he has refused."

"Then let us combine, Max, in trying to discover the truth," her brother
suggested.  "Marion shall not be cast aside into oblivion by these
drapery capitalists who gain fat profits upon the labour and lives of
women."

"You may imperil your position with Statham if you act without
discretion," remarked Max warningly.

"I shall do nothing without full consideration, depend upon it.  Statham
refused his assistance, therefore we must act for ourselves."

"How?  Where shall we begin?" asked Max.

His friend raised his palms in a gesture of bewilderment.

"Look here, Charlie," said the other in a confidential tone.  "Has it
not occurred to you that there may be a method in old Statham's
eccentricity regarding that house of his.  Now tell me, what do you know
of its interior?  Let's be frank with each other.  You have lost both
your sister and the woman you adored, while I have lost Marion, my
well-beloved.  Let us act together.  During these past weeks I've been
thinking deeply regarding the mystery of that house in Park Lane."

"So have I, many times.  I only know the ground floor and basement.  I
have never ascended the stairs, through that white-enamelled iron door
concealed by the one of green baize."

"Where does old Levi sleep?"

"In a room at the back of the kitchen--when he sleeps at all.  He's like
a watch-dog, on the alert always for the slightest sound."

Max paused for a moment before making any further remark.  Then he said
in a quiet voice:

"There are some very queer stories afloat concerning that place,
Charlie."

"I know.  I've heard them--about mysterious people who enter there at
night--and don't come forth again.  But I don't believe them.  Old Sam
has earned a reputation for being eccentric, and his enemies have tacked
on all sorts of sensational fictions."

"But I've heard lately from half a dozen sources most extraordinary
stories.  Up at the Moretouns' at Inversnaid the night before last, they
were talking of it at dinner.  They were unaware that I knew Statham."

"Just as the gossips are unaware that the persons who come and go so
mysteriously at the Park Lane mansion are secret agents of the great
financier," Rolfe said.  "Of course it would not do to say so openly,
but that's who they are.  The allegation that they don't come forth
again is, I feel confident, mere embroidery to the tale."

"But," exclaimed Max with some hesitation, "has it not ever occurred to
you somewhat curious that, so deeply involved in Servian finance,
Statham has never sought to solve the mystery of the doctor's
disappearance?  Remember, they knew each other.  The doctor, when he was
in power at Belgrade, was probably the old man's cat's-paw.  Is it not
therefore surprising that he has never expressed a desire to seek out
the truth?"

Rolfe held his breath as a new and terrible suspicion arose within him.
He had never regarded the affair in that light.  Was it possible that
his master knew well all the circumstances which had led the doctor to
disappear in that manner so extraordinary?  Had he really had a hand in
it?

Was he the "friend" of whom Sir Charles had spoken in Belgrade?

But no!  He would not believe such a thing.  Sam Statham was always
honest in his dealings--or, at least, as honest as any millionaire can
ever be.  The man who habitually deals in colossal sums must now and
then, of necessity ruin his opponents and wreck the homes of honest men.
And strange it is that the world is ever ungrateful.  If a very wealthy
man gave every penny of his profits to the poor he would only be dubbed
a fool or an idiot for his philanthropy.

He recollected that afternoon when, at work in old Sam's room, he had
mentioned the doctor's sudden departure, and how deftly the old man had
turned the conversation into a different channel.

Until two days ago he would hear no word nor believe any ill against the
man who had befriended him.  But the man's refusal to assist him to
discover the truth concerning the charge against Marion or to order her
to be reinstated had turned his heart.

He was now Sam Statham's enemy, as before he had been his friend.

The two men seated together discussed the matter carefully and seriously
for the greater part of the night, and when they parted to go to their
rooms they took each other's hands in solemn compact.

"We will investigate that house, Rolfe," Max declared; "and we'll lay
bare the mystery it conceals!"

CHAPTER FORTY FIVE.

THE IMPENDING BLOW.

Four nights later Max and Charlie alighted from the Scotch express at
Euston on their return to London to make investigation.

Next morning Rolfe went as usual to Park Lane, and spent some hours
attending to the old man's correspondence.  The excuse Charlie made for
his absence was that he had been away in an endeavour to find his
sister, whereat the millionaire merely grunted in dissatisfaction.  Both
Charlie and Max were full of sorrow and anxiety on Marion's behalf.
What had befallen her they dreaded to guess.  She had left Oxford
Street, and from that moment had been swallowed in the bustling vortex
of our great cruel London, the city where money alone is power and where
gold can purchase everything, even to the death of one's enemy.  Perhaps
the poor girl had met with some charitable woman who had taken her in
and given her shelter; but more probable, alas! she was wandering hungry
and homeless, afraid to face the shame of the dastardly charge against
her--the charge that to neither her brother nor her lover none would
name.

That morning Charlie wrote on, mechanically, speaking little, with the
old man seated near him sucking the stump of a cheap cigar.  His mind
was too full of the action he was about to execute--an action which in
other circumstances would have indeed been culpable.

Both he and his friend had carefully considered all ways and means by
which they might enter those premises.  To get in would be difficult.
Old Levi bolted the heavy front door each night at eleven, and then
retired to his room in the basement, where he slept with one ear and his
door open to catch the slightest sound.

And even though they obtained access to the hall and study there was the
locked iron door at the head of the staircase--the door through which
they must pass if their investigation of the house was to be made.

That morning he made excuse to leave the old man seated in his study,
saying that he wanted to speak to Levi and give him a message for one of
the clerks from Old Broad Street.  Outside in the hall he sprang
noiselessly up the stairs, and, pulling open the baize-covered door,
swiftly examined the great iron fireproof door so carefully concealed
and secured.  His heart failed when he recognised the impossibility of
passing beyond.  The door was enamelled white like the panelling up the
stairs, only over the small keyhole was a flap of shining brass bearing
the name of a well-known safe-maker.  At imminent peril of discovery by
Levi, who often shuffled in noiseless slippers of felt, he lifted the
flap and peered eagerly beyond.  He could, however, see nothing.  The
hole did not penetrate the door.

Then, fearing that he might be discovered, he slipped downstairs again,
and went to examine the front door.  The bolts were long and heavy, and
the chain was evidently in use every night.

In the kitchen he found Levi, preparing his master's frugal meal, which
usually consisted of a small chop, a piece of stale bread, and one glass
of light claret.  His visit below gave him an opportunity of examining
the fastenings of the windows.  They were all patent ones, and, besides,
the whole were protected from burglars by iron bars.

Patent fastenings were also upon the windows of the study, looking forth
upon Park Lane, while often at night the heavy oaken shutters were
closed and barred.  He had never before noticed how every precaution had
been taken to exclude the unwelcome intruders.

Through the whole morning his brain was actively at work to discover
some means by which an entry might be effected, but there seemed none.

The secret, whatever it might be, was certainly well guarded.

He went across to the club to lunch, and returned again at three
o'clock.  About four he rose, asking old Sam, who was seated writing,
for a document from the safe, the key of which was upon his watch-guard.
The millionaire took out his watch and chain and handed them to his
secretary, as he so often did, while the latter, crossing the room,
opened the safe and fumbled about among some papers in one of the
drawers.

Then he re-locked the safe, handed back the watch and chain, and
re-seated himself at the table.  Those few brief moments had been
all-sufficient, for upon the bunch was the latch-key of the front door,
an impression of which he had taken with the wax he had already
prepared.  The duplicate key could, he knew, be filed out of the handle
of an old spoon, and such was his intention.

He had hoped to find upon the bunch the key to the iron door on the
stairs, but it was not among them.  He knew each key by sight.  The old
man evidently kept it in a safer place--some place where the hand of
none other might be placed upon it.

Where did he keep it?

Its hiding-place must be somewhere handy, Charlie reflected, for at
least half a dozen times a day the old man passed that iron barrier
which shut off the upper part of the mansion.  He wondered where he
could find that key, but remained wondering.

That evening he took the impression of the latchkey to Dover Street, and
with Max's help tried to fashion a key to that pattern, but though they
tried for hours it was in vain.  So they gave it up.  Next day Max took
train to Birmingham, and handed the impression to a locksmith he chanced
to know.  The latter, having looked at it, shook his head, and said:

"This impression is no use, sir.  It's what they call a paracentric
lock, and you must have impressions of both sides, as well as the exact
width back and front before I can make you a duplicate."

The man showed how the impressions should be taken.  Max, of course,
concocting a story as to why it was wanted, and then back to London he
travelled that same night to consult with his friend.

The outcome of this was that two days later complete impressions were
taken of the small latchkey, and within three days came the duplicate by
post.

Max bought two electric torches, two pairs of felt slippers, a piece of
thin but very strong rope, screwdriver, chisel, and other implements,
until he had a full burglar's equipment.  The preparations were exciting
during the next few days, yet when they came down to bed-rock fact there
was that locked door which stood between them and the truth.

Charlie's object in obtaining a duplicate latchkey was to enter
noiselessly one night shortly before eleven, and secrete, themselves
somewhere until Levi bolted the door and retired.  They must take their
chance of making any discovery they could.  Both were well aware of
Levi's vigilance, and his quickness of hearing.  Therefore they would be
compelled to work without noise, and also to guard against any hidden
electric burglar alarms which might be secreted in the sashes of windows
or in lintels of doors.

Investigation by Charlie had not revealed the existence of any of these
terrors to thieves; yet so many were the precautions against intruders
that the least suspected contrivance for their detection was to be
expected.

Nearly a fortnight passed before all arrangements were complete for the
nocturnal tour of investigation.  Daily Rolfe, though attentive to his
duties as the old man's secretary, was always on the alert to discover
the existence of that key to the iron door.  By all manner of devices he
endeavoured to compel Statham to unwittingly reveal its whereabouts.  He
made pretence of mistaking various keys to deed boxes and nests of
drawers, in order that the old man should produce other keys.  But he
was too wary, and never once did he fall into the trap.

Yet often he left the study, passed up the stain, and through the door
swiftly, until the younger man began to suspect that it might be opened
by means of some secret spring.

Standing below, he could not obtain sight of the old fellow as he opened
the door, and to follow him half-way up was too dangerous a proceeding.
He had risked a good deal, but he dare not risk the old man's wrath in
that.

Still that he passed the door quickly and without hindrance was plainly
shown.  He had a key secreted somewhere--a key which, when applied,
turned quickly, with ease and without noise, to admit the owner of the
great mansion to the apartments where his secret was so successfully
hidden.

Sometimes he would descend pale, haggard, and agitated, his hand upon
his heart, as though to recover his breath.  At others he was flushed
and angry, like a man who had a moment before taken part in a heated
discussion which had ended in a serious difference.

Charlie watched all this, and wondered.

What secret could possibly be hidden in those upper storeys that were at
times so brilliantly lit?

Each evening he called on Max at Dover Street, and with closed door, so
that the man should not hear, they discussed the situation.

Of Jean Adam nothing further had been seen.  Neither had the hunchback
engineer, Leonard Lyle, been at all it evidence.  Ever since Max had
given the Frenchman his decision not to go to Constantinople Adam had
held aloof from him.  They had parted perfectly good friends, but Max
could detect the bitter chagrin that his reply had caused.

One evening as the two sat together Charlie related his curious
experience of the short, dark, good-looking girl who had met him in
Paris and talked so strangely of Maud in the Tuileries Gardens.

Max sat smoking his cigar listening to every word.

"Curious--very curious!" he ejaculated.  "Didn't she tall you her name?"

"She gave it as Lorena."

"Lorena!" gasped the other, starting up.  "Lorena--why, it must have
been Lorena Lyle--old Lyle's daughter?"

"His daughter!  I never knew he had one."

"No; perhaps not.  He doesn't often speak of her, I believe.  I saw her
once, not long ago."

"They have quarrelled--father and daughter!" exclaimed Rolfe.  "And that
accounts for her exposure of the plot against Statham to compel him to
commit suicide rather than to face exposure.  Remember, she would not
betray who was Adam's associate in the matter.  Because it is her own
father, without a doubt."

"She alleged that Statham committed a secret crime, by which he laid the
foundation of his great fortune," Max remembered.  "And, further, that
confirmation of the charge brought by Adam will be found beyond that
locked door?"

"Yes," said his companion, in a hollow voice; "I see it all.  The girl
wishes to exclude her father from the business.  Yet she knows more than
she has told me."

"No doubt.  She probably knew Maud also, for she has lived for years--
indeed, nearly all her life--in Belgrade," Barclay remarked.  "She
quarrelled with her father, and went on the stage as a dancer in the
Opera at Vienna.  She is now in Paris in the same capacity.  If I
remember aright she was here at Covent Garden last season.  They say she
has great talent and that she's now being trained in Paris for the part
of _premiere danseuse_."

"She alleged that there still live two witnesses of Statham's crime,
whatever it was," Charlie went on.

"And they are probably Adam and her hunchback father--both men who have
lived the life of the wilds beyond the fringe of civilisation--both men
who are as unscrupulous as they are adventurous."

"But from all I knew of Lyle he was a most highly respectable person.
In Belgrade they still speak of him with greatest respect."

"Leonard Lyle in Belgrade, my dear chap, may have been a very different
person to Leonard Lyle in other countries, you know," was his friend's
reply.

"But why has his daughter given me this warning, at the same time taking
care to conceal her identity."

"She was a short, dark-haired girl, rather good-looking, except that her
top teeth protruded a little; about nineteen or so--eh?"

"Exactly."

"And depend upon it that she has warned you at Maud's request, in order
that you may be forearmed against the blow which the pair are going to
strike."

"And which we--you and I, Max--are going to assist--eh?" added the
other, grimly.

CHAPTER FORTY SIX.

TO LEARN THE TRUTH.

The mystery by which old Sam Statham sometimes passed beyond that
white-enamelled door was inexplicable.

Whenever he left the library to ascend the stairs, Charlie Rolfe stole
quietly out behind him, and listened.  Sometimes he distinctly heard the
key in the lock; at others it sounded as though the closed door yielded
to his touch and swung aside for him to pass beyond.  It closed always
with a thud, as though felt had been placed upon it to prevent any
metallic clang.

While Charlie watched the great financier's every movement, Max was
unceasing in his inquiries regarding Marion.  Advertisements had Men
published in the "personal" columns of various newspapers, and the
private inquiry agents whose aid he had sought had been unremitting in
their vigilance.

The whole affair from beginning to end now showed the existence of some
powerful hand which had directed and rendered the mystery beyond
solution.  The strange re-appearance of Jean Adam and Leonard Lyle had
been followed quickly by the extraordinary flight of Doctor Petrovitch
and Maud.  The latter had only an hour before she had disappeared into
space made some remarkable confession to Marion--a confession which
might or might not save Samuel Statham from an ignominious death.

But the girl had preserved the secret of the confession confided to her
by her friend, and, preferring shame and misjudgment, she in turn had
disappeared, whither no one knew.

The two men, brother and lover, who had now united their forces to solve
the problem and at the same time ascertain for themselves what the
secret of the house in Park Lane really was, were at their wits' ends.
Their inquiries and their efforts always led them into a _cul-de-sac_.
At every turn they seemed foiled and baffled.  And was it surprising
when it was considered the power of Samuel Statham and the means at his
command for the preservation of a secret?

Charlie felt that he was being watched hourly by one or other of those
spies who sometimes gave such valuable information to the head of the
firm.  Some of these secret agents of Statham he knew by sight, but
there were others unseen and unknown.

Even though Max and his friend were able to enter unheard and secrete
themselves before the place was locked up by old Levi, yet there was
that white door barring their passage to the mystery beyond.  Many times
they discussed the possibilities, and each time hesitated.  Charlie was
sorely puzzled regarding the key of the iron door.  Sometimes it was
undoubtedly used, sometimes not.

At last one evening, after both men had dined at the St James's, of
which Max was a member, they resolved upon a bold move.  Charlie
suggested it, and the other was at once ready and eager.

So after Max had been round to his rooms to put on a suit of dark
tweeds, he went to Charlie's chambers where the various implements were
produced and laid upon the table.  It was then nearly ten o'clock.

Rolfe, having sent Green to the other end of Jermyn Street out of the
way, drew out the whisky decanter from the tantalus stand, poured out
two "pegs" with soda, and drank:

"Success to the elucidation of old Statham's secret."

Then, carefully stowing the various articles in their pockets, they
slipped down into the street and were out of sight before the
inquisitive Green had returned.

Arrived in Park Lane, after a hasty walk, they strolled slowly along by
the park railings past the house.  All was in darkness save the hall,
where the electric lamp showed above the fanlight.  Old Sam was probably
in his study, smoking his last cigar, for the shutters were that night
closed, as they sometimes were.  The shutters of the basement were also
closed behind their iron bars, while at the upstairs windows all the
blinds were carefully drawn.

Indeed, the exterior of the house presented nothing unusual.  It was the
same as any other mansion in Park Lane.  Yet there were many who on
going up and down the thoroughfare afoot or on the motor-'buses jerked
their thumbs at it and whispered.  The house had earned a reputation for
mystery.  Sam Statham was a mystery in himself, and of his house many
weird things were alleged.

Thrice the pair passed and repassed.  At the corner of Deanery Street
stood a constable, and while he remained there it was injudicious to
attempt an entry with a latchkey.  So they strolled back in the
direction of the fountain, conversing in undertones.

Max glanced at his watch, and found that it wanted a quarter to eleven.
At last they crossed the road and passed the door.  All seemed quiet.
At that moment the only object in sight was a receding motor-'bus
showing its red tail-light.  Not a soul was on the pavement.

"All clear!" cried Charlie, scarce above a whisper, as he slipped up the
two or three steps, followed by his companion.

That moment was an exciting one.  Next second, however, the key was in
the latch, and without a sound the wards of the lock were lifted.

In another moment the pair stood within the brightly-lit hall, and the
door was closed noiselessly behind them.

Standing there, within a few yards of the door of the library, where
from the smell of tobacco smoke it was evident that old Sam was taking
his ease, they were in imminent risk of discovery.  Besides, Levi had a
habit of moving without sound in his old felt slippers, and might at any
moment appear up the stairs from the lower regions.

Instinctively Charlie glanced upstairs towards the locked door.  But
next second he motioned his companion to follow, and stole on tiptoe
over the thick Turkey carpets past the millionaire's door and on into a
kind of small conservatory which lay behind the hall and was in
darkness.

Though leading from the room behind the library, it was a fairly good
spot as a place of hiding, yet so vigilant was old Levi that the chances
were he would come in there poking about ere he retired to rest.

The two men stood together behind a bank of what had once been
greenhouse plants, but all of them had died by neglect and want of water
long ago.  The range of pots and dried stalks still remained, forming an
effectual barrier behind which they could conceal themselves.

Through the long French window of the room adjoining the light shone,
and Charlie, slowly creeping forward, peered within.

Then he whispered to his friend, and both men bent to see what was
transpiring.

The scene was unusual.

A full view of the library could be obtained from where they stood in
the darkness.  In the room two of the big armchairs had been pulled up,
with a small coffee table between them.  On one side was old Sam, lazily
smoking one of his big cigars, while on the other was Levi, lying back,
his legs stretched out, smoking with perfect equanimity and equally with
his master.  Upon the table was a decanter of whisky and two glasses,
and, judging from the amused countenances of both men, Sam had been
relating to Levi something which struck the other as humorous.

It was curious, to say the least, that Levi, the humble, even cringing,
servant should place himself upon an equality with his master.  That he
was devoted to old Sam, Charlie knew well, but this friendship he had
never suspected.  There was a hidden reason for it all, without a doubt.

The two intruders watched with bated breath, neither daring to make a
sound.

They saw Levi, his cigar stuck in the side of his mouth, lean back and
thrust his hands deep into his trousers-pockets, uttering some words
which they could not catch.  His manner had changed, and so had Sam's.
From gay the pair had suddenly grown grave.  Upon the millionaire's brow
was a dark shadow, such as Charlie, who knew him intimately in all his
moods, had seldom seen there.

Levi was speaking quickly, his attitude changed, as though giving
serious advice, to which his master listened with knit brows and deep
attention.  Then, with a suddenness that caused the two watchers to
start, the electric bell at the hall-door sounded.

In an instant Levi tossed his cigar into the fire, whipped off his glass
from the table, and in a single instant became the grave family servant
again, as with a quick gesture of his hand he left the room to answer
the summons at the door.

In a few moments he returned, closing the door quickly after him, so
that whoever was in the hall could not overhear what was said.

Approaching his master he made some announcement in a whisper, whereat
the millionaire clenched his fist, and struck violently in the air.
Levi urged calmness; that was evident from his manner.

Then Sam, with a resigned air, shrugged his shoulders, paced the room in
quick agitation, and turned upon his servant with his eyes flashing with
anger.

Again Levi placed his thin hand on the old man's arm which calmed him
into almost instant submission.

Then the grave-faced old servant went out, and an instant later ushered
in a woman, all in black--a woman who, in instant, both Max and Charlie
recognised.

They both stood watching, breathless--rooted to the spot.

The mystery, as they afterwards discovered, was even greater than they
had ever anticipated.

It was beyond human credence.

CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN.

CONTAINS MORE MYSTERY.

The old-fashioned, ill-cut gown of black stuff and the rather unbecoming
big black hat gave Sam's visitor an appearance of being older than she
really was.  A spotted veil concealed her features, but as she entered
the room she raised it quickly.

The face revealed was the soft, sweet countenance of Maud Petrovitch.

Charlie gripped his companion's arm and gave vent to an exclamation of
amazement as he stood peering forth open-mouthed.

As the girl entered the old man turned fiercely upon her and uttered
some inquiry.  What it was the watchers could not distinguish, for thick
plate glass stood between the conservatory and the library.  Yet
whatever he said or however caustic and bitter his manner, the young
girl stood defiant.

Her chin was raised, her eyes flashed upon him, and her gloved hand was
outstretched in a gesture of calm denunciation as she replied with some
words that caused the old fellow to draw back in surprise and confusion.

The door had closed, for Levi had left the pair together.  Max wondered
whether the old servant would now come and search the back premises
prior to locking up.  If so, they might easily be discovered.  Those
felt-soled boots of old Levi struck fear into their hearts.  Charlie
was, however, too occupied in watching the old man and the girl at that
moment to think of any danger of detection.

His well-beloved stood pale, beautiful, and yet defiant before the man
who a moment before had shaken his fist and clenched his teeth on
hearing of her demand to see him.  The words she had uttered had caused
an instant change in his manner.  His sudden anger had been succeeded by
fear.  Whatever she had said was evidently straight to the point.

For a moment he regarded her in silence, then over his grey face came a
crafty smile as with mock courtesy he offered her a chair, still
remaining standing himself.

She leaned her elbow on the arm of the chair, and, bending towards him,
was speaking again, uttering slow, decisive words, each of which seemed
to bite into his very soul.  His countenance again changed; from mock
humour it became hard, drawn, almost haggard.

Charlie, who knew the old man in every mood, had never witnessed such an
expression upon his face.  Beneath it all, however, he detected a look
of unrelenting, almost fiendish revenge.  He longed to rush forward and
grasp his loved one in his arms, but Max, seeing his agitation, laid his
hand firmly upon his shoulder.

"Let us watch in patience, Charlie," he urged.  "We may learn something
interesting."

Maud had altered but little since that afternoon when, in the haze of
the red London sunset, Charlie had last walked with her in Nevern
Square.  She was, perhaps, a trifle pinched in the cheeks, but the sweet
dimples were still there, and the little wisp of hair still strayed
across her white brow.  Her gown, however, seemed shabby and
ill-fitting.  Perhaps she had borrowed it in order to come there in
garments by which she would not be recognised.  For a young girl to make
a visit at that late hour was, to say the least, somewhat unusual.

Both men standing in the shadow behind the thick glass longed to hear
what the pair were saying.  It was tantalising to be so near the
disclosure of a secret--indeed, to have it enacted before one's eyes--
and yet be debarred from learning the truth.

Max examined the door, hoping to open it ever so slightly, but to his
chagrin he found it locked and bolted.  Old Levi had already prepared to
retire before they had made their surreptitious entrance there.

That he had at last found Maud again was to both a source of immense
gratification.  At last the truth of the doctor's strange disappearance
would now be known.  But what connection could old Statham have with the
affair?

Charlie recollected what Sir Charles Harrison had told him in Belgrade--
that the bomb outrage by which a poor innocent child had lost her life
had been planned by one of his friends.

He had suspected Max.  But in the light of Maud's secret visit to
Statham, he now held the last-named in distinct suspicion.  Was it part
of the millionaire's cunning policy in Servia to rid the country of its
greatest statesman?

No.  That was impossible.  The Doctor and Statham had been friends.
When Petrovitch was in power they had worked hand-in-glove, with the
result that the millionaire had lent money to the Servian Government
upon very second-class security.  Unrest in Servia would, Charlie was
well aware, mean loss to Statham Brothers of perhaps a million sterling.
It was therefore to the interest of the firm that the present
Government should remain in power, and that the country should be
allowed to develop and progress peacefully.

He tried to put behind him that increasing suspicion that Old Sam was
the "friend" to whom the diplomat had so mysteriously referred.

And yet as he watched every movement, every gesture of the pair within
that long room where the lights were so artistically shaded--the room
wherein deals involving the loss or gain of hundreds of thousands of
pounds were decided--he saw that the girl remained still defiant, and
that the man stood vanquished by her slow, deliberate accusation.

Old Sam's bony fingers were twitching--a sign of suppressed wrath which
his secretary knew well.  He held his thin lower lip between his yellow
teeth, and standing with his back to the fireplace, he now and then cast
a supercilious smile upon the pretty girl who had come there in defiance
of the convenances--in defiance, evidently, of his own imperious
commands.

Samuel Statham at that moment was not the hard-faced old benefactor who
haunted the seats in the park and gave so much money anonymously to the
deserving among the "submerged tenth."  He was a man fighting for his
honour, his reputation, his gold--nay, his very life.  He was a man
whose keen wit was now pitted against that of a clear, level-headed
girl--one who had right and justice on her side.

Was it possible, Charlie thought, that his well-beloved knew the old
man's secret--that secret which, before he would face its exposure, he
would prefer the grave itself?

He watched Maud and noted how balanced was her beautiful countenance,
and yet how calm and how determined she was.  When the old man spoke she
listened with attention, but her replies, brief and pointed, were always
made with a gesture and expression of triumph, as of one who knew the
naked and astounding truth.

"What can it all mean?" whispered Max.  "Why is she here?  How
tantalising it is that we cannot catch a single word she is uttering!"

"The door's bolted," Charlie said in a tone of chagrin.  "We can only
watch.  See!--she's evidently telling him some home truths that are the
reverse of palatable.  He looks as though he could kill her!"

"He'd better not attempt it," remarked Max grimly, and they both stood
again in silence, peering forward in breathless eagerness.

For fully ten minutes longer the old man and the young girl were in
heated discussion.  Sometimes Statham spoke quickly and angrily, with
that caustic assertiveness that most people found so overbearing.  Of a
sudden both watchers were aware of a slow, stealthy movement behind
them--a shuffling of feet it seemed.

It was old Levi, on his tour of inspection to reassure himself that all
was secure.  In an instant both intruders drew back into the deep shadow
behind a high stand upon which stood choice plants in tiers, or rather
the dried-up pots which had once contained them.

They were only just in time, for old Levi, peering forth into the
semi-darkness as he stood in the doorway leading from the hall, searched
around.  Then, finding all quiet and detecting nobody, he closed the
door and locked it.

They were thus locked out by both doors!

To re-enter the house would be difficult.  It was a contingency for
which they had not been prepared.

Still, they were too interested in watching the pair within to think
much of the contretemps that had occurred.  Old Levi had shuffled away,
and was waiting, no doubt, to usher out the dainty little visitor before
returning to the regions below.

Maud, however, showed no sign of haste to leave.  Comfortably ensconced
in her chair, with her veil thrown back, she sat facing him, and
replying without hesitation to his allegations.

The sinister expression upon the old man's face told its own tale.  His
impatient bearing and quick gesture showed his eagerness to get rid of
her.  But she, on her part, seemed to have no intention of leaving just
yet.  She was speaking, her gloved finger raised to emphasise her
words--hard words, which, from the expression upon her face seemed full
of bitter sarcasm and reproach.

Of a sudden he turned upon the girl with a fierceness which took her by
surprise.  He uttered a few words, which she answered quickly.  Then,
striking his hands into the pockets of his trousers, he bent towards her
with an evil grin upon his grey face and made some remarks which caused
in her a quick change of attitude.

She rose from her chair, her face aflame with anger, and, taking a
couple of paces towards him, replied with a vehemence which neither of
the unseen onlookers suspected.

The battle of words continued.  He was making some allegations, the
truth of which she was denying.  This girl, not yet out of her teens,
was defiant of the man whose life had been one long struggle to grow
rich, and whose gigantic wealth was now crushing the very soul from his
body.  Surely they were an incongruous pair.  His defiance of her was
only a half-hearted one.  His sarcasm had irritated her, and now,
alleging something, which was a lie, he had goaded her into all the
fierce ebullition of anger which a woman, however calm and level-headed
she may be, cannot at times restrain.

"I wonder what the old blackguard has said?" whispered Max to the man at
his side.

"It seems as though he has made some charge against her."

"Or against her father," Max suggested.

"You suspected me of being privy to the Doctor's disappearance, Max,"
Charlie said, still in a whisper.  "You said that you saw me at Cromwell
Road that night.  Are you still of that opinion?"

"No," responded his friend.  "There was a plot--a cleverly devised plot.
Someone went there dressed exactly like you."

"But you say you saw his face."

"So I did.  And I could have sworn it was you."

"It is that conspiracy which we have to fathom," Charlie said.  "At
least, we have established the fact that Maud is alive.  And having
found Maud, we may also find Marion.  Possibly she went to her into safe
hiding from us."

"More than possible, I think."

But while they were whispering something occurred which made them both
start.  The girl, crimson with anger, suddenly dived her hand into her
dress pocket, and, taking out a bundle of paper, flung it at the man
before her.

They saw, to their amazement, that it was a bunch of crisp banknotes.
She had cast it at his feet in open defiance.

Perhaps the money was the price of her silence--money he had sent to her
or to her father to purchase secrecy!

The old man gave a glance at the notes crushed into a bundle and lying
upon the carpet, and then, turning to her, snapped his bony finger and
thumb in defiance, and laughed in her face--a grim, evil laugh, which
Charlie knew from experience meant retaliation and bitter vengeance.

CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT.

NOT COUNTING THE COST.

The girl turned to leave, but the old man placed himself between her and
the door.

She stamped her little foot angrily in command to be allowed to pass.

He saw her determination, and hesitated.  Then he seemed to commence to
argue, to place before her the probable result of her action in casting
aside the money, but she would hear nothing.  Her mind seemed fully made
up.  She had spoken her last word, and wished to leave him.

He saw in her decision an attitude antagonistic to himself.  He was in
deadly peril.  Though his wealth could command all that was good and all
that was bad, though it placed him above his fellow men and rendered him
immune from much, yet it could not ensure her goodwill.

Both Max and Charlie realised plainly that Maud was in possession of
some great secret, and that she had refused a bribe of silence.  This
man who had believed that his money could purchase anything had
discovered, to his dismay, that it could not seal her lips.  He saw
himself facing an imminent peril, and was undecided how to act.

He argued.  But she would not listen.  He appealed.  But she only smiled
and shook her head.

Her mind was made up.  She had decided to refuse the money.  He picked
it from the floor and handed it to her again, but she would not take it
in her hand.

Then he crossed to his writing-table, took out his chequebook and
scribbled a cheque--one for a large amount in all probability.  Tearing
it from its counterfoil, he gave it to her.

But with an expression of defiance she tore it into four and cast it
upon the floor with a gesture of disgust.  And in triumph, before he
could prevent her, she opened the door, and disappeared from the room.

"We must follow her?" whispered Charlie eagerly.

"But, my dear fellow, we can't!  We're locked in!"

Rolfe, realising the truth that they were prevented from overtaking his
well-beloved, for whom they had been so long in active search, and that
she must again dip from them into oblivion, gave vent to a forcible
expression of despair.

"Let's remain here," urged Max.  "We may learn something else."

"The old man will go to bed," was Charlie's response.  "And we will
follow and explore above."

"How?" asked Rolfe.

"That remains to be seen.  We must, in this case, act discreetly, and
trust to luck."

"But Maud?  I must see her."

"That's impossible at present.  You have seen her--that's enough for
to-night.  To-morrow we may discover something further--or even
to-night."

Both men, scarce daring to breathe, were watching old Sam.

After the girl had gone, he placed his hand upon his heart, and, with
face white and haggard, he sank into his writing-chair.  He had
collapsed as though he had received a sudden blow.

Levi entered hurriedly a few moments later, and, finding his master
leaning forward upon his table muttering to himself, tried to rouse him.

A glance at his face showed that he had collapsed.  Levi therefore
rushed across the room, poured out some brandy from the tantalus, and
compelled the old man to swallow it.  This, after a few moments, revived
him.  The faithful servant, however, stood by in wonderment.  He seemed
puzzled as to what had occurred.

But the fragments of the torn cheque scattered upon the carpet showed
defiance on the part of the visitor whom he had just shown out into the
night.

Levi stooped as far as his rheumatism would allow, and slowly, very
slowly, gathered up the torn pieces of paper and placed them in the
basket, his eyes the whole time upon his master.

Straightening himself again, he spoke, making inquiry as to what had
occurred.  But his master, with a wave of his hand, commanded his
silence.  Then, sinking back in his chair, he remained, staring straight
before him like a man in a dream.  He seemed peering into the future--
and he saw only exposure and ruin!

Hands and teeth were clenched, for he realised that he had taken a false
step.  He had misjudged his own power and influence.  He had believed
that a good and truthful woman could be purchased, as he might purchase
any other thing or chattel.

She had cast his gold into his face.  She had insulted him, for she had
spoken a truth which he could not deny.  Indeed, that slim, pale-faced
girl, scarce more than a child, held over him power supreme--power for
life, or for death.

The scene within that room was a strange one.

Old Levi, standing statuesque at his master's side, uttered some words.
But the millionaire was silent.  He only raised his grey head and sat
staring at the great painting opposite--staring like a man peering into
the grim unknown.

The door that divided the watchers from the watched prevented the words
from being overheard.  The thickness of its glass prevented the truth
being known to the two men standing breathless behind it.  Had it been
ordinary glass they would no doubt have overheard the conversation
between the old man and his fair visitor.

The anger of both men had been aroused by Statham's attitude towards the
girl.  Even Charlie, faithful and devoted as he had been to the
millionaire, had now become fiercely antagonistic, for he had seen by
the old man's countenance that some terrible revenge was intended upon
the girl he loved so dearly.

Levi bent and placed his hand tenderly upon his master's shoulder.

But Statham shook him off, and, straightening himself, staggered to his
feet and paced the room in a frenzy of despair.

Charlie recollected his agitation after the unexpected discovery of Jean
Adam lounging outside the park railings.  This repetition of his
apprehension showed him to be in terror of exposure and denunciation.

Maud, so slim, sweet-faced, and innocent, had defied him.  She held him,
the man whose power in every European capital was recognised and feared,
in the hollow of her hand.

Why?  Ay, to that question there was no answer.  They had witnessed the
scene, but they had caught no sound of one single word.

At last Levi succeeded in calming his master.  He mixed him another
brandy and soda and handed it to him.  The old man seized it with
unsteady hand, and tossed it off at a single gulp.

Then he walked slowly from the room, followed by Levi.

An instant later the old servant turned the switch, and the room, and
with it the neglected conservatory, were plunged in darkness.

The two intruders listened.  Voices sounded, and then died away.  A
moment later they heard a thud, and knew that the old man had passed
beyond the white-enamelled door and had closed it behind him.

For another few minutes they remained in silence, then Max whispered:

"What shall we do?"

"We must get out of here," answered his friend promptly.  "We're caught
like a rat in a trap.  To open either of the doors leading into the
house is impossible.  We must try and make our exit by the back," and,
groping his way, he moved to the door, which opened on to a small, paved
backyard.

But it had been secured.  Levi, indeed, kept it always locked, and the
key was not there.

"To break this open will create a noise, and arouse somebody," Max
remarked.

"Well, we must get out at all hazards.  We can't stay here till morning
and court discovery," Rolfe argued.  "If we only had a little light we
might see what we're doing.  By Jove!  You've got a pocket-lamp, Max.
Where is it?"

"Is it safe yet to show a light?"  Barclay asked dubiously.  "It may be
seen from outside, you know!"

"It can't.  There's a blank wall opposite."

"But will not the reflection be seen by Levi from below?" asked Max.

Rolfe saw that, after all, there was some danger of detection, and
admitted it.

"Then let's wait a bit," his companion whispered.  "By patience we may
be able to escape without detection.  Don't let us act indiscreetly."

So the pair, leaning against one of the stands of dead flowers, waited
in silence, their ears strained to catch every sound.  The moments
seemed hours, until at last, all being quiet, Max, at his friend's
suggestion pressed the electric button of the little hand-lamp and
showed a light upon the door.

It was half of glass, with strong lock and double bolts.  To escape
meant to break away a hole large enough for a man's body to pass.  Max
suggested that they might find the key hanging somewhere upon a nail, as
conservatory keys are often kept, in that manner.  But though they
searched the whole place, treading lightly as they went, they were
unable to discover it.

"Levi keeps it upon his bunch, I expect," Charlie remarked.  "I've never
seen this door open in my life."

"That's why the flowers are all dead, perhaps," Max remarked grimly with
a low laugh.

"Flowers!  Old Sam declared that they were no use to him, therefore he
forbade Levi to give them any water, and they all died.  The old man
isn't fond of flowers.  Says they're only useful at weddings and
funerals."

"There won't be many at his obsequies!" laughed Max beneath his breath,
as he made another examination of the door.

Both agreed that to open it was impossible, while to break out the glass
was far too risky a proceeding, for some of it must fall upon the paving
outside.

Rain had begun to fall, pattering heavily upon the glass roof above; and
as they were both searching about blindly for some other mode of egress
Max suddenly exclaimed:

"Why, look here!" and pointed to a portion of the glass side of the
conservatory which had opened outwardly upon a hinge, but which had been
securely screwed up.

"Excellent!" cried Charlie, realising that an exit lay there, and,
quickly drawing from his pocket a serviceable-looking screwdriver, set
to work upon the screws.

They were long, and hard to withdraw, but ten minutes later all six of
them were taken out, and, pushing back the movable frame upon its
hinges, they found themselves outside in the narrow backyard.

Once free, Max turned his face upwards to the dark windows of the first
floor of the mysterious mansion, saying: "We must get up there, Charlie,
somehow or other.  I'm not going from this place until I've learnt its
secret."

"No," responded his friend.  "Neither am I."

CHAPTER FORTY NINE.

WHAT LAY BEHIND THE DOOR.

Above the dome-shaped roof of the conservatory was a row of four long
dark windows, and still above them two further storeys.  On the second
storey in the centre of the house was a high window covered with wire
network, evidently a staircase window of stained glass.

The whole place was in darkness, as were the houses on either side,
while at rear of them rose a blank wall, the back of one of the houses
in Park Street.  The only light showing was in the basement--a faint
glimmer behind the green holland blinds, which showed the presence of
Levi in the lower regions.

"He sleeps in the front," remarked Charlie.  "I expect, however, he
keeps this on all night."

"Where does old Sam sleep?"

"That I don't know.  We'll have to discover."

The windows above the conservatory were their objective, but to ascend
there was full of peril, for, even though they could climb up, one false
step and they would come crashing through the glass roof.  This would
mean both serious personal injury as well as instant discovery.

In the whispered consultation that followed, both recognised the danger,
but both were equally determined to risk it.  They had plenty of time.
The night was still young, therefore there was no need for haste.

They made careful examination as far as they could in the very faint
light.  Max was afraid to flash his electric lamp too often lest the
attention of any neighbour might be attracted and an alarm of "burglars"
given.  Neither knew whether a servant might not be looking out upon the
night.  The house they desired to enter had earned a reputation as a
house of mystery, therefore it was more than likely that some watchful
eye of a curious neighbour, master or servant, was kept upon the rear of
the premises.

At last, Max, who was the more athletic and nimble of the two, decided
that the only way by which to reach the roof of the conservatory was by
the spouting at the side.  The ascent was a difficult one, but he
resolved to attempt it.

Taking a small coil of thin but very strong rope which Charlie produced
from the capacious pocket of the shooting-jacket he wore for that
purpose, he mounted upon his friend's shoulders, and then climbed slowly
up, with an agility which surprised his friend.

Once upon the roof he made fast the rope to one of the iron stays of the
spouting, and let it down to Charlie, who a few moments later swarmed up
it and stood on the edge of the glass roof beside his companion.

Their position there was one of greatest peril.  They stood together
upon the narrow edging of lead by which the glass roof was joined to the
wall of the house.  They moved slowly and gingerly, for it was quite
uncertain whether it would bear their weight.  Besides, there was
nothing to grasp by which to relieve their weight, for above them rose
the wall sheer to the ledges of the row of windows, too high for them to
reach.

A step in the wrong direction, and down they must come with a crash into
the neglected conservatory.

Max could hear his own heart beating.  The risk was greater than he had
ever anticipated.  Yet so greatly was their curiosity now aroused that
nothing could brook their attempt to learn the secret that dark
mysterious house contained.

They stood together, not daring to move.  At a short distance away was a
thin iron support running into the wall--part of the framework of the
roof--and towards that Max crept carefully, until at last he reached it
and stood in a safer position.

The weight of both men caused the curved roof to give slightly, and more
than once they heard sharp noises where the glass, fitting too tightly,
cracked across by the undue pressure.

Neither spoke.  Max was eagerly searching for some means by which to
reach one of the windows above.  In his ascent there he had torn his
coat, and a great strip of it was hanging.  He had left his hat below,
and the light rain was falling upon his uncovered head.

Slowly he crept forward from iron to iron until he reached the opposite
side of the big glass roof, and there found, as he had hoped, another
iron rain-spout which led straight up past the end window, to the roof
of the house.

Back he came to his companion in order to obtain the rope, and then,
with it bulging in his pocket, he stole along and ascended the second
pipe as he had done the first.  This proceeding was, however, far more
dangerous, for to fall with the glass beneath him meant almost certain
death.

Charlie watched his form ascending in the darkness, scarce daring to
breathe.  Slowly he went up, until, on a level with the window, he
halted.  Around the ledge, six inches above, was an iron bar let into
the wall in order to prevent flowerpots from being blown down upon the
conservatory roof.  This iron proved Max's salvation, for gripping it he
steadied himself while he secured the rope to the spout as he had
previously done on the first ascent.

Then, with a firm grip upon the strong bar, and his knee upon the stone
ledge, he tried the window.

It was fastened.  The green holland blind was drawn, but as far as he
could ascertain the shutters were not closed.

From his pocket he drew a glazier's putty-knife, and, inserting it
between the sashes, worked quietly until his heart gave a bound of
satisfaction at feeling the latch slowly give.

A second later it went back with a sharp snap, and the window was free!

He lifted the sash, pushed the blind aside, and crept within.

Then leaning forth he whispered to Charlie to follow.  Up the latter
came by means of the rope as quickly as he was able, and a few moments
later both men stood within the room.

By its sound, and by the fact that it was carpetless, they knew it was
devoid of furniture.  Max flashed on the light, and the truth was at
once made plain.  The apartment was square and of fair size, but within
was not a single thing; was perfectly empty.

In a second a thought occurred to Charlie.

"If the door's locked on the outside we're done!" he gasped.

They both crossed to the door in an instant, and Max placed his hand
upon it.  The handle turned slowly, and the door yielded.  By great good
fortune it was not locked.

Creeping noiselessly outside, they found themselves upon a big square
landing above half a dozen broad stairs.  Below them was the
white-enamelled iron door, which opened only to its owner and which no
person had been known to pass.

The landing and stairs were thickly-carpeted, just as they were below
the door.  But about the place was the close musty smell of a house that
for years had remained closed and neglected.

From the landing were three other doors beside the one at which they
stood, all of them closed.

Charlie took his bearings, and, pointing to the door farthest away from
them, whispered:

"That's the drawing-room, no doubt.  And that's the door of the room
adjoining.  I expect it's a big room opening from back to front like all
drawing-rooms in these houses."

"Awkward if it proves to be the old man's bedroom," Max replied, with a
laugh.

"We must risk that.  My own belief is that he sleeps up on the next
floor.  These are all reception-rooms, without a doubt," was Charlie's
answer.  It was strange, after all the time he had been in the old man's
employ, that this should be the first occasion he should explore the
house.

Those moments of pitch darkness were exciting ones.

They resolved to enter the door furthest away, the door which they
believed led to the drawing-room, and together they moved noiselessly
across with that purpose.

The key was in the lock.  Without noise Max turned it, and slowly pushed
open the door.

Both entered, holding their breath and fearing to make the slightest
sound, for they knew not whether old Sam was asleep there.

For a full ten minutes they paused listening for sounds of breathing in
the pitch darkness.  But there were none, only the beating of their own
hearts.

Then, with Charlie's whispered consent, Max pressed the button of the
pocket-lamp, and it shed a streak of light across to the opposite wall
of the big apartment.

What was revealed held them aghast and amazed.

"This is indeed strange?" gasped Charlie.  "What can it be?"

Max was turning the light from side to side of the room, examining every
corner.

What they saw had held them both speechless.

Charlie saw an electric switch near his hand, and touched it.  In an
instant the great room was flooded with light, revealing a scene,
curious, unusual, extraordinary.

There was no thick carpet or upholstered furniture; no painted ceiling
or pictures upon the walls; no cabinet or bric-a-brac, or grand piano,
or palms, or anything connected with drawing-room furniture.

Instead, the two intruders found themselves inside a peasant's cottage
in some far-off country--a house, it seemed, with quaint furniture
painted and carved.  Before them was an old-fashioned oak press, black
with smoke and age, and along the wall a row of shining cooking utensils
of copper.  In the centre was a long old table, with big high-backed
wooden chairs; at the side a high brick stove.

The men stepped within and gazed around, bewildered.

At one end was a small square window, where beyond lay a snow-clad
scene, lit by the moon's rays--a cleverly contrived piece of scenery,
showing the white road winding into the distance lined on each side by
the dark forest of firs.

The scene was intended to be Russian, without a doubt, for over the
stove a holy ikon hung against the wall, a small painted head surrounded
by a square of highly burnished gold.

Every object was quaintly shaped and foreign.  In one corner stood an
old spinning-wheel with the flax upon it, while in another was an
old-fashioned gun.  A couple of wolves' skins were spread upon the
floor, while upon the cleanly-scrubbed table showed a large brown
stain--it might be of coffee, or it might be of blood!

The walls had been whitewashed, and across the ceiling, once gilt and
adorned, no doubt, ran blackened beams in exact imitation, it seemed, of
some house in the far east of Russia beyond the Volga.

Upon a side table lay a big, rather thin book, bearing upon its black,
greasy cover the Imperial Russian arms--the double-headed eagle.
Charlie opened it, and found it ruled like an attendance book, with
careful entries in Russian in various hands.  Neither could read the
language, therefore it was to them unintelligible.  By the stove was a
low wooden settle, upon which lay a man's fur cap and big sheepskin
winter coat, as though the owner of the place had just risen and left.

"What can this possibly mean?" asked Max, gazing around in sheer
wonderment.

To this query, however, Charlie could venture no suggestion.

They stood amid surroundings that were to both a complete mystery.

Charlie touched the switch when, lo! the lights in the room were
extinguished, and only a line of white brilliance as that of the full
moon entering the window from the snow-covered land beyond, fell across
the silent place full upon the table which bore that ugly dark brown
stain.

Both men stood motionless and wondering, fascinated by the extraordinary
and striking effect.

Was that stain shown so vividly beneath the white moonbeams actually the
stain of blood?

CHAPTER FIFTY.

FACE TO FACE.

That a Park Lane drawing-room should be transformed into the interior of
a log-built house of the Russian steppe was surely unsuspected by any of
those who passed up and down that renowned thoroughfare every day.

The popular idea associated that long row of millionaires' houses facing
Hyde Park with luxuriant saloons, priceless paintings, old Persian
carpets, and exquisite furniture.  Who would believe that behind those
windows with their well-kept curtains, and _brise-brise_ of silk and
lace, was a room arranged with such care, with the snowy road and
moonlight shown beyond the false window?

"With what object, I wonder, is all this?" asked Charlie, speaking in an
undertone, as though to himself.  There was something weird and uncanny
about the scene with that white streak of brilliance falling like a bar
across the place, an indescribable something which made it plain that
all had been arranged with some evil design by the old man.

No second glance was needed to show that every bit of furniture, and
every article in the place was genuine.  They were no stage properties,
but real things, brought from some far-distant spot in Eastern Russia.
But with what motive?

Ay, that was the question!

They had turned, and were about to withdraw from the place, Max leading
the way, when suddenly he halted, for his quick ears caught some sound.
It was a curious, low, whirring noise, followed almost instantly by a
swift swish close to him, so near, indeed, that it caused a current of
air in his face as some object passed him from above.

At the same moment the noise of mechanism ceased.

For a few seconds both intruders hesitated.

Charlie asked breathlessly what it could be, whereupon his friend turned
on the light, and the truth stood revealed.

By an ace he had escaped with his life!

At the door, in order to prevent the egress of any intruder, a cunning
but dastardly mechanical device had been placed.  A long iron lever, to
which was attached a keen-edged Japanese cutlass, had come forth from
its hiding-place in the lintel of the door, and, descending with
terrific force, had only just escaped cutting Max down.

Both men saw the means by which old Statham guarded the secret of that
room, and shuddered.  To enter was easy, but it was intended that he who
entered might not emerge alive.

Apparently one of the floor boards just within the door was loose, and,
being trodden upon, the weight released the spring or mechanism, and the
razor-edged cutlass shot forth with murderous force.

"By Jove!" gasped Charlie.  "I had no idea the old man set traps for the
unwary.  We'd better be careful!"

"Yes.  That was indeed a narrow escape!" whispered Max.  "It would have
been certain death.  Let's get out of it."

The steel lever was down, the point of the cutlass touching the floor.
Therefore they were both compelled to step over the death-trap in order
to leave the remarkable apartment.

Then with careful hands Charlie tried the next door.  It was locked.

Brief examination showed it to be the door of the back drawing-room,
which had been thrown into the larger room with the mysterious purpose
of constructing that striking rural interior.

So they crossed to the third door, on the opposite side of the landing,
and, with greatest caution lest another pitfall should lurk there,
opened it.

That night of investigation was full of surprises.

The instant Max flashed on his light the pair drew back with low
exclamations of horror.

The small apartment was unfurnished.  It contained only one object--
gruesome and unexpected.  In the centre of the place, upon the black
trestles, stood a coffin of polished oak with shining electro handles
and fittings.

The lid, they noticed, was screwed down.  Was it possible that it
contained an unburied corpse.  Did that white-enamelled door upon the
stairs conceal from the world the evidence of a crime?

For a moment both men stood in that bare, uncarpeted room, rooted to the
spot.

The secret of Sam Statham stood revealed.

Then with a sudden effort Charlie crept forward, nearer the coffin, and
read upon its plate the words, plainly engraved:

JEAN ADAM.  AGED 49.

Then Adam had been entrapped there--and had lost his life!

Both men started as the tragic truth dawned upon them.  Adam was old
Sam's most bitter enemy.  He was dead--in his coffin--yet the
millionaire had, up to the present, been unable to dispose of the
remains.  There was no medical certificate, therefore burial was
impossible.

The weird stories which both men had heard of nocturnal visitors to that
house who had never been seen to emerge, and of long boxes like coffins
which more than one person said they had seen being brought out and
loaded upon four-wheeled cabs all now flashed across their minds.

Of a verity that house was a house of grim shadows, for murder was
committed there.  Men entered alive, and left it dead.

Max stood by the coffin of the man who had so cleverly sought to entice
him away to Constantinople with stories of easily obtained wealth, and
remained there breathless in wonder.  He recollected Sam's words, and
saw in them a bitter hatred of the Franco-English adventurer.  Had he
carried this hatred to the extreme limit--that of secret assassination?

Charlie, on his part, stood silent also.  He knew well that upon the
death of Adam depended the future prosperity of his master.  He was well
aware, alas! that Adam, having suddenly reappeared, had vowed a terrible
and crushing vengeance upon the head of the great firm of Statham
Brothers.

But old Sam, with his usual crafty forethought and innate cunning, had
forestalled him.  The adventurer had been done to death, and was already
in his coffin!

In his cool audacity old Sam had actually prepared the lead-lined coffin
with its plate ready inscribed!

Its secret arrival at night had evidently been witnessed, and had given
rise to strange and embellished stories.

The last occasion Max had seen Adam was one night three weeks before
when, dining with two other men in the gallery of the Trocadero
Restaurant, he had seen him below seated with a rather young and
good-looking lady in an evening-dress of black net.  The pair were
laughing together, and it struck him that the companion of the
adventurer might be French.  He had afterwards discovered that she was
Lorena Lyle, daughter of the old hunchback engineer who was his partner
in certain ventures.

"The girl who met me in Paris and gave me warning!"  Rolfe exclaimed.

"Yes, the same.  They dined together that night and hurried out to get
to the theatre."

"And you've never seen him since?"

"No.  Ten days ago, I wrote to the National Liberal Club giving him an
appointment, but he never kept it."

"Because he was lying here, I suppose," remarked Charlie with bated
breath, adding: "This, Max, is all utterly incomprehensible.  How dare
the old man do such a thing?"

"He's been driven into a corner, and as long as he preserves his secret
he will still remain a power in the land."

"But his secret is out--we have laid it bare."

"At risk of our lives--eh?" remarked Max, shuddering again as he
recollected his own narrow escape of a few minutes before.

They stood before the mortal remains of the man who had sworn vengeance
upon Statham, neither of them speaking.  Presently, however, Charlie
proposed that they should make further investigation on the floor above.

Closing the door of the death-chamber, they stole noiselessly up the
wide, thickly-carpeted staircase to the next landing, where four white
doors opened.  Which they should enter first they were undecided.  They
were faced by a serious problem.  In either of those four chambers the
old millionaire might be asleep.  To enter might awaken him.

This they had no desire to do.  They expected to be able to open the
iron door from within and pass down the stairs into the hall, and so
into the street without detection.  That was their intention.  To return
by the way they had come would be impossible.

Together they consulted in low whispers, and, both agreed, Charlie very
carefully turned the handle of the door nearest them.  It yielded, and
they crept forward and within.  At first Max feared to show his light,
yet as they found no carpet beneath their feet, and as they felt a vague
sense of space in the darkness, he became bolder, and pressed the button
of his little lamp.

It was, like the other apartments, entirely devoid of furniture!  The
upper part of those premises, believed by the world to be filled with
costly furniture and magnificent antiques, seemed empty.  Charlie was
amazed.  He had heard many romantic stories of why the old man never
allowed a stranger to ascend the stairs, but he had never dreamed that
the fine mansion was unfurnished.

The next room they examined was similar in character, rather larger,
with two long windows overlooking the Park.  They were, however,
carefully curtained, and the blinds were down.  Beyond a rusty old
fender before the fireplace and a roll of old carpet in a corner, it,
however, contained nothing.

They passed to the third apartment, likewise a front room, and Max
slowly turned the door-handle.  In the darkness they stepped within, and
again finding it uncarpeted, he shone his light across the place.

Next instant the pair drew back, for sitting up upon a low, iron camp
bedstead, glaring at them with eyes haggard and terrified, was old Sam
Statham himself.

The room was bare save an old painted washstand and chest of drawers,
dirty, uncarpeted, and neglected.  The low, narrow bed was covered by an
old blue and white counterpane, but its occupant sat glaring at the
intruders, too terrified to speak.

In the darkness he probably could not recognise who it was.  The
electric light blinded him.  Next second, however, he touched the switch
near his hand, and the wretched room became illuminated, revealing the
two intruders.

He tried to speak, but his lips refused to articulate.  The old man's
tongue clave to the roof of his mouth.

He knew that his carefully-guarded secret was out!

CHAPTER FIFTY ONE.

DESCRIBES ANOTHER SURPRISE.

"To what, pray, do I owe this intrusion?" demanded the old man fiercely,
rising from his bed, and standing erect and defiant before them.

"To your own guilt, Mr Statham," was Max Barclay's quiet but distinct
response.

"My guilt?" gasped the old man.  "Of what crime am I guilty?"

"That's best known to yourself," answered the younger man.  "But I
think, now that we've investigated your house and discovered your
death-trap, we will bid you good-night."

"You've--you've found it--eh?" gasped the old fellow, pale as death.

"Yes; and, furthermore, we know how Maud Petrovitch had cast your money
at your feet, and defied you."

"I--I must explain," he cried, as in frantic eagerness he put on his
clothes.  "Don't leave me.  Come below, and--and'll tell you."

The pair remained in the wretchedly uncomfortable room, while the old
man finished dressing.  Then all three descended, the millionaire
walking first.  They passed the door of the room where stood the coffin,
and by touching a spring the iron door opened, and they descended to the
library.

The noise wakened old Levi, who appeared at the head of the back stairs,
full of surprise.

A reassuring word from his master, however, caused him to at once retire
again.

Within the library old Sam switched on the light, and invited both his
unwelcome visitors to be seated.  Then, standing before them, he said:

"I presume, gentlemen, that your curiosity led you to break into my
house?"

Max Barclay nodded.

"I can understand you acting thus, sir; but I cannot understand Rolfe,
who knows me so well and who has served me so faithfully."

"And, in return, how have I been served?" asked Charlie, bitterly.  "My
poor sister has been turned adrift, and you have refused to lift a
finger to reinstate her."

"I admit that on the face of it, Rolfe, I have been hard and cruel,"
declared the old man.  "But when you know the truth you will not,
perhaps, think so unkindly of me as at this moment."

The old fellow was perfectly calm.  All his fear had vanished, and he
now stood his old and usual self, full of quiet assurance.

"Well," Rolfe said, "perhaps you will tell us the truth.  Why, for
instance, did Maud Petrovitch visit you to-night?"

"She came upon her own initiative.  She wished to ask me a question."

"Which you refused to answer."

"It was not judicious for me to tell her what she desized to know--not
at present, at least."

"But now that we are here together, in confidence you will, no doubt,
allow us to know where she and her father are in hiding," Charlie asked,
breathlessly.

"Certainly, if you will promise not to communicate with them or call
upon them without my consent."

"We promise," declared Max.

"Then they are living in strictest seclusion at Fordham Cottage,
Arundel, in Sussex."

"But you have quarrelled with Maud?"  Charlie remarked, at the same time
remembering that closed coffin in the room above.

"Upon one point only--a very small and unimportant one," responded the
old man.

"Where is my sister?"

"Unfortunately, I have no knowledge of where she is at present."

"But you have just assured me that when I know the truth I shall not
regard you so harshly," Rolfe exclaimed.

"And I repeat it," Statham said.

The old man's attitude amazed them both.  He was perfectly calm and
quite unperturbed by the grim discoveries they had made.

"You mean that you refuse to tell me anything concerning my sister?"
Charlie asked, seriously.

"For the present--yes."

"Why not now?  Why forbid us also from seeking the Doctor and his
daughter?"

"For reasons of my own.  I am expecting a visitor."

Max laughed sarcastically.  The reason put forward seemed too absurd.

"Ah! you don't believe it!" cried the old fellow.  "But you will see.
Your curiosity has, no doubt, led you to misjudge me.  It was only to
have been expected.  I ought to have guarded my secret better."

Neither man spoke.  Both had their eyes fixed upon the grey face of the
old millionaire before them.  They recollected his despair before he had
retired to rest, and remembered, too, the tender care of his faithful
Levi.

The clock chimed the half-hour--half-past three in the morning.

The night had been fraught by so many surprises that neither Charlie nor
his friend could believe in the grim reality of it all.  They never
suspected that that fine mansion was practically unfurnished, or that
its millionaire owner practically lived the life of a pauper.  Had not
Charlie been well aware of his master's shrewdness in his business and
clearness in his financial operations, he would have believed it all due
to an unbalanced brain.  But there was no madness in Samuel Statham.  He
was as sane as they were.  All his eccentricity was evidently directed
towards one purpose.

As he stood there he practically told them so.

"You misjudge me!" said he, his grey face relaxing in a smile.  "You
think me mad--eh?  Well, you are not alone in that.  A good many people
believe the same of me.  I am gratified to think they believe it.  It is
my intention that they should."

"But, Mr Statham, we have asked you a question to which you have
refused to answer.  We wish to know what has become of Marion Rolfe."

"You were engaged to her--eh?  Yes, I know," responded the old man.
"For that very reason I refuse to tell you.  I can only reassure you,
however, that you need experience no anxiety."

"But I do.  I love her!"

"Then I am very sorry, your mind must still continue to be exercised.
At present I cannot tell you anything."

"Why?"

"Have I not already told you?  I am expecting a visitor."

It was all the satisfaction they could obtain.

Charlie longed for an opportunity to refer to the gruesome object in
that locked room upstairs.  The man who had so suddenly reappeared and
sworn vengeance upon the great financier was dead--fallen a victim, no
doubt, to the old man's clever cunning.  He had, without doubt, been
enticed there to his death.  The secret reason of the white-enamelled
door at the top of the stairs was now quite plain.  In that house was a
terrible death-trap, as deadly as it was unexpected.

They held knowledge of the truth.  How would the old man act?

Contrary to their expectations, he remained quite indifferent.  He even
offered them a drink, which they refused.

His refusal to tell them anything regarding Marion and his treatment of
Maud had incensed them, and they both were bitterly antagonistic towards
him.  He was, no doubt, playing a huge game of bluff.  His disregard of
their discoveries was in order to lessen their importance, and his story
of a visitor told to gain time.

Probably he intended to make good his escape.

Both were expecting every moment that his coolness would break down, and
that he would suggest that they kept silence as to what lay concealed on
the floor above.

Indeed, they were not mistaken, for of a sudden he turned to them, and
in rather strained voice said:

"Now, gentlemen, I admit that you have discovered my secret; that my
position is--well--a disagreeable one, to say the least.  Is there any
real reason why you should divulge it--at least for the present?"

Charlie shrugged his shoulders, and Max at the same time realised that a
deadly fear was creeping back upon the old man, whose enormous wealth
had stifled all human feeling from his soul.

"I merely ask your indulgence," said the old man, in a low, eager tone.

"For how long?"

"For a day--maybe for a week--or perhaps a month.  I cannot tell."

"That means that we preserve the secret indefinitely?"

"Until the arrival of my visitor."

"Ah! the visitor!" repeated Max, with a grin of disbelief.  "When do you
expect the visit?"

"I have expected it during many months," was the millionaire's brief
reply.

"And you can tell us nothing more?  Is not your story a somewhat lame
one?"

"Very--I quite admit it.  But I can only assure you of its truth."

"It is not often you speak the truth, Mr Statham, is it?" asked Max,
pointedly.

"I suppose I am like many another man," was his reply.  "I only speak it
when obliged!"

As he uttered those words there sounded in the hall the loud electric
bell of the front door.  It was rung twice, whereupon old Sam drew
himself up in an instant in an attitude of alertness.

"The visitor!" he gasped, raising his bony finger.  "The long-expected
caller!"

The two rings were evidently a pre-arranged signal.

They heard old Levi shuffling outside.  The door opened, and he stood
expectant, looking at his master, but uttering no word.

"Gentlemen," exclaimed old Sam.  "If you will permit me, I will go and
receive my visitor.  May I ask you to remain here until I return to
you--return to answer any inquiries you may be pleased to put to me?"

The old fellow was quite calm again.  He seemed to have braced himself
up to meet his visitor, whoever he or she might be.  It was one of his
secret agents, Charlie thought, without a doubt.

Both men consented, and old Sam withdrew with Levi.

"Please remain here.  I ask you both to respect my wishes," he said, and
going out, closed the door behind him.

The two men listened with strained ears.

They heard the sound of footsteps outside, but as far as they could
distinguish, no word was spoken.  Whether the mysterious visitor was
male or female they could not ascertain.

For several moments they stood at the door, listening.

Then Max, unable to resist his own curiosity, opened the door slightly,
and peered into the hall.

But only Levi was there, his back turned towards the door.  His master
and his visitor had ascended the stairs together, passing the iron door
which now stood open for the first time.

Max beckoned Charlie, who, looking outside into the hall, saw Levi
standing with both hands pressed to his brow in an attitude of wildest
despair.

His agitation was evidently for his master's safety.

A visitor at a quarter to four in the morning was unusual, to say the
least.  Who could it be?

Levi turned, and as he did so Max closed the door noiselessly, for he
did not wish the faithful old servant to discover him as an
eavesdropper.

Fully ten minutes elapsed, when of a sudden the sharp crack of a
pistol-shot echoed through the empty upstairs rooms.

It caused both men to start, so unexpected was it.

For a second they hesitated; then opening the door, they both dashed up
the forbidden stain.

CHAPTER FIFTY TWO.

CONTAINS A COMPLETE REVELATION.

A complete surprise awaited them.

The door of the small room on the first floor stood open, and within the
light was switched on.

Upon the threshold they both paused, dumbfounded by the scene before
them.

Just as they had left it, the coffin stood upon its trestles, but lying
on the floor beside was the body of the man whose name it bore upon its
plate--the man Jean Adam!

In his nerveless grasp was a big service revolver, while the small round
hole in his white temple told its own tale--a tale of sudden
denunciation and of suicide.

The dead man wore evening-dress.  On his white shirt-front was an ugly
crimson splash, while his fast-glazing eyes, still open, stared blankly
into space.  At the opposite wall, leaning against it for support, was
old Sam Statham, his countenance blanched, his jaw set, unable to utter
a word.

The sudden unexpectedness of the tragedy had appalled him.  He stood
speechless.  He could only point to the inanimate form upon the floor.

Max lifted the body and sought eagerly for signs of life.  There were,
however, none.  The bullet had penetrated his brain, causing instant
death.

Sam Statham's enemy--the man whom they had presumed was already in his
coffin was dead!  Yet what was the meaning of it all?  The whole affair
was a complete enigma.  Why had Jean Adam, the adventurer who had lived
by his wits for years and the hero of a thousand thrilling adventures,
taken his own life beside his own coffin?

Rolfe and Barclay turned away from the gruesome scene, and in silence
descended the stairs, where, standing back in the shadow, trembling like
an aspen, stood old Levi.

As they passed down, the servant entered the room to join his master,
with whispered words of awe.

Then, at the millionaire's suggestion, when he descended to them five
minutes later, Charlie went forth into Park Lane, and, walking hastily
towards the fountain, found a constable, whom he informed of the
tragedy.

As he went back to the house with the policeman at his side, he wondered
whether, after all, he had not misjudged old Sam.  In any case, there
was a great and complete mystery which must now be elucidated.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Just outside the little old town of Arundel in rural Sussex at the top
of the steep hill which leads on to the high road to Chichester, a road
rendered dusty in summer and muddy in winter by the constant succession
of motor cars which tear along it, stands Fordham Cottage, a small
unpretentious redbrick house, surrounded by a pretty garden, and divided
from the road by a high old wall clothed completely by ivy.

It was three o'clock in the afternoon.

Within the neat old-fashioned front parlour--for the owners of the house
were two prim maiden ladies--stood Rolfe and Barclay, together with the
grey-haired, grey-bearded man who, having rented the place furnished,
was living there in complete seclusion--Doctor Michael Petrovitch.

They were in earnest conversation, but Charlie kept his eyes upon the
window, as though in expectation of the arrival of someone.  The autumn
day was fine and dry, and Maud, returning from London by the first
train, which had arrived at half-past six that morning, had, after
luncheon, gone out upon her cycle as was her daily habit.

Her lover, anxious and impatient, scarcely heeded what the Doctor was
explaining to Max.

For the past hour both men had been describing in brief what had
occurred since the ex-Minister's disappearance from Cromwell Road,
relating practically what has already been chronicled in the preceding
chapters.  They had told him of Adam's threats, of the warning given to
Charlie by Lorena Lyle, of Adam's endeavour to entice Max to
Constantinople and of Statham's evident terror of Adam's vengeance.  To
it all the grave grey-bearded statesman had listened attentively.

Only when they described their secret visit to the house in Park Lane,
and the extraordinary discoveries they had made there, did their hearer
evince surprise.  Then, knitting his brows, he nodded as though he
understood.  And when they told him of Adam's suicide, he drew a deep
breath of apparent relief.

"That man," he said, in a low, distinct voice, with scarce a trace of
accent--"that man was my enemy, as well as Statham's.  It was he who, in
order to further his speculative financial schemes, paid an assassin to
throw a bomb at my carriage--the bomb that killed the poor little child!
He was an adventurer who had filched money from widows and orphans--a
scoundrel, and an assassin.  The assassin, when in the fortress at
Belgrade, confessed to the identity of his employer.  But in the
meantime he disappeared--to South America, it is believed.  Prior to the
attempt upon me, Lyle, the mining engineer, was his cat's-paw, as he has
ever since been--a good fellow at heart, but weak and at the same time
adventurous.  Once or twice they made big profits out of concessions for
copper mining obtained from my predecessor in office.  When Adam found
that I refused to participate in business that was a fraud upon the
public in Paris and London, he plotted to get rid of me.  Fortunately he
did not succeed; but when the truth was exposed to the Servian
Government that he was the real assassin, certain valuable concessions
were at once withdrawn from him, and he was thereby ruined.  He vowed
vengeance upon me, and also upon Statham--to whom the concessions had
been transferred--a terrible vengeance.  But soon afterwards he
disappeared, and we heard, upon what seemed to be good authority, that
he was dead.  He had been shot in a drunken brawl in Caracas."

"And then he suddenly turned up again--eh?"  Max remarked.

"Yes; and for that reason Mr Statham suggested that I and my daughter
Maud should disappear to some place to which he could not trace us.
Statham defied his threats, but at the same time thought that if we
disappeared in such a manner that the police would not seek us, it would
be a wise step.  For that reason I arranged that the furniture, as well
as ourselves, should disappear, in order to make it appear that we had
suddenly removed, and also to prevent the police searching too
inquisitively for `missing persons.'  Had they done this, our
hiding-place would soon have been discovered.  I disappeared more for
Maud's sake, than for my own.  I knew the desperate character of the
man, and the mad vengeance within his villainous heart."

"But Statham also feared him," remarked Charlie, recollecting the
occasion when his employer had betrayed such terror.

"Yes.  The exact facts I do not know.  He will tell you himself,"
answered the ex-Minister.

"Maud was in London last night, and called upon Statham," Max remarked.

"She called in secret lest she might be seen and followed by Adam," her
father replied.  "She went there to return to Statham a sum of money he
had sent her."

"For what?"

"He wished to know the whereabouts of Lorena Lyle, who had been her
schoolfellow in Belgrade.  Statham, I fear, intended, in some way, to
avenge himself upon Lyle--and on his daughter more especially--on
account of his association with his enemy.  The girl is in London, and
he wished to know where she was living."

"And the money which she returned was given her in order, to induce her
to divulge?"

The Doctor nodded in the affirmative, adding:

"You see that Statham, surrounded by unscrupulous enemies as he has
been, was bound to act always for his own protection.  He has been
misjudged--by you--by everybody.  I, who know him more intimately,
perhaps, than anyone save his own brother Levi, assure you that it is
so."

"His brother Levi!" cried Charlie.

"Of course, Levi, who poses as his servant, is his brother.  They have
been inseparable always, from the early days when Sam Statham was a
mining prospector and concession-hunter--the days before fortune smiled
upon the three Statham brothers, and they were able to open the doors of
the offices in Old Broad Street.  The romance of old Sam's life is the
romance of the great firm."

"He treated my sister badly," declared Charlie.  "For that I can never
forgive him."

"No; there you are wrong.  It is true that he would not allow her to be
reinstated at Cunnington's, and, on the face of it, treated her
unjustly.  But he had a motive.  True, she refused to betray to him
something which my daughter had told her in confidence.  For that
refusal he allowed her to be dismissed from her situation; but on the
following day he sent her down to me here to remain in concealment."

"Why?"

"Because of that man Adam.  He had been attracted by her good looks, and
had begun to pester her with his attentions.  Statham knew this from the
report of one who had watched her in secret.  Therefore, by sending her
here into hiding, he was acting in her best interests."

"Then she is here?" cried Max, anxiously, his face suddenly brightening.

"Yes.  See! here she comes--with Maud!" and as both men turned quickly
to the window they saw the two laughing girls, flushed by their ride,
wheeling their cycles up the path from the road.

Next moment both men dashed outside, and both girls, utterly amazed and
breathless, found themselves suddenly in the arms of their lovers.

The Doctor looked on, smiling, and in silence.  He saw the lips of both
girls covered with the hot fervent kisses of good and honest men.  He
heard their whispered words, and then he turned away.

Those long black days of suspicion and despair were at an end.  The
mystery of it all was now being rapidly solved, and both girls within
that little parlour wept tears of joy upon the shoulders of the men whom
they had chosen as their husbands.

The happiness of four young hearts was complete.  The grim shadow had
lifted, and upon them now fell at last the bright sunshine of life and
of love.

The self-effacement of that little household was at an end.  Freed from
the bondage of silence, the truth was at last told.  Maud, with her own
lips, explained to Charlie the confession she had made to Marion on the
night of their disappearance.  She had told her how the man Adam, whom
she had known in Belgrade, had followed her several times in the
neighbourhood of Earl's Court, had spoken to her, and had declared his
love for her.  She never suspected that he had been her father's enemy--
the man who had been the instigator of the dastardly outrage--until on
the previous evening, her father had, in confidence, told her the truth,
and added that, because of his re-appearance, they had to fly.  She
dared not tell him they had met, but she had made Marion her confidante.
It was the story of the bomb outrage that had held Marion horrified.

Charlie, when he had listened open-mouthed to the explanation of his
well-beloved, cried:

"The assassin!  And he dared to speak to you of love!"

"He is dead, dearest," answered the girl, quietly stroking his hair from
his brow.  "Let us forgive him--and forget."  For answer he took her
again in his arms, and kissed her tenderly upon the lips.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Three days later.

The coroner's jury had returned a verdict of "suicide while of unsound
mind," and the body of Jean Adam had, with the undertaker's assistance,
been buried in Highgate Cemetery in the actual coffin which had been so
long prepared for him.  It was surely a weird revenge of old Sam's.

But the whole occurrence was a grim and terrible repayment of an old
debt.

In the fading twilight of the wet and gloomy day on which the dead man's
body was, without a single follower, committed to the grave, Rolfe and
Barclay were seated with the millionaire in the familiar library in Park
Lane.

Old Sam had been making explanations similar to those made by the Doctor
down at Arundel.  Suddenly he said, looking from one to the other:

"And now I have to apologise to you both.  In arranging the
disappearance of my dear friend the Doctor, I contrived to mislead you,
in order to add mystery to the occurrence.  I knew, Rolfe, you lost your
train at Charing Cross that night; that you did not wish to be seen off
by your sister Marion because you had--in my interests--quarrelled with
Adam and had made murderous threats against him--perhaps unwisely.
These threats, however, you believed Adam had told to Barclay, hence
your fear of the last-named later on.  I arranged that a man should be
present at Cromwell Road in clothes resembling your own, that a garment
should be placed in the house with a bloodstain upon it, and that the
doctor's safe should be blown open as though thieves had visited the
place after the removal of the furniture.  I knew from the Doctor that
you, Barclay, would go there that evening, and my object was to puzzle
and mislead you, at the same time believing that, having suspicions of
your friend Rolfe, you would not go to the police.  Again, in order to
test Rolfe's devotion to myself, I suggested that the honour of the
woman he loved, if sacrificed, could save me.  I made this suggestion in
order to put Rolfe off the scent."

"Then it was all your own doing?"  Max cried, in surprise.

"Entirely," was the old man's response.  "In the interests of myself, as
well as of both of you.  Adam believed that you were aware of his secret
intentions, therefore he was plotting to entice you to Turkey--a country
where you might have disappeared with ease.  That was undoubtedly his
object."

For a few moments he paused; then, clearing his throat, the old man
said, in a distinct voice:

"The other night you were no doubt both surprised to find my
drawing-room transposed into the interior of a Russian house.  Well, it
was done with a distinct purpose--to defeat my enemy.  He, with his
friend and accomplice Lyle, had made a false charge against me--a charge
supported by the perjured evidence of the hunchback--a charge of having
in the old days, years ago, murdered a woman--the woman who was my
wife."

A shadow of pain crossed the old man's brow at what seemed a bitter
remembrance.  Then, after a moment's pause, he went on:

"She was worthless!  Ah! yes, I admit that.  But I swear I am innocent
of the charge they brought against me.  She was killed in Caracas in a
brutal manner, but by whom I could never discover.  After her death I
left South America.  Adam and his friend dropped their foul charge
against me, and I lost sight of them for years.  Later on, I was
prospecting in the Timan Mountains, in Northern Russia, within the
Arctic Circle, a wild snow-covered country outside the edge of
civilisation.  Both gold and emeralds had been discovered along the
Ishma Valley, and there had been a rush there.  Among the many
adventurous spirits attracted thither was Jean Adam, with his attendant
_alter ego_ Lyle.  We met again.  It was in winter, and we were in a
state of semi-starvation, all three of us.  Not a word was said
regarding the charge they had made against me.  Both were without means,
and both down on their luck.  For a fortnight we remained together,
then, finding things hopeless resolved to struggle back to civilisation
at the nearest little Russian village, a miserable little place called
Ust Ussa, four hundred and fifty versts south.  On the way we all three
nearly succumbed to the intense cold and want of food.  At last,
however, late one night we came across a lonely house in a clearing in
the pine forest on the outskirts of the village which was our goal.
Sinking with fatigue, we begged shelter of the white-bearded old man who
lived there.  He took us in, gave us food, and allowed us to sleep.  I
was drowsy and slept heavily.  It was late when I awoke--when I awoke to
find lying beside the table opposite me the old man stone dead, stabbed
to the heart!  The place had been ransacked; the old man's hoard of
money--for there are no banks there--had been found, and my two
companions were missing.  They had gone--no one knew whither!  What
could I do?  To remain, would mean to be accused of the crime, and
probably sent to Siberia.  Well, I reflected for a moment.  Then I took
some food, stole out, and made my way again into the snow-covered
wilderness.  Ah! the recollection of it all is still upon me, though
years have since elapsed."

"And then?" asked Max, when he found tongue.

"Since then I and my brothers Levi and Ben have abandoned the old life,
but I have ever since been determined to avenge the brutal murder of
that poor old peasant.  I made a vow not to enjoy the luxuries which my
money brought me until my conscience had been cleared and the assassin
brought to justice.  Hence, I have lived in the desolation attendant
upon pauperism.  I have been the Pauper of Park Lane.  Seven years ago I
sent an agent to the place, and purchased all the interior of the house.
Then, when I came to live here, I had the drawing-room fitted as you
see it, and have since awaited my opportunity.  The other night, as you
know, Jean Adam came to renew his false charge against me, and I took
him upstairs and ushered him suddenly into the scene of his crime.  Ah!
his terror was horrible to witness: he trembled from head to foot.  He
saw the hangman's rope around his neck.  Then I took him into the next
room, and showed him in silence what I had prepared for him.  He read
his own name inscribed there, and with a curse upon his lips, drew his
revolver and put an end to his life."

Both his hearers remained in silence.  It had surely been a just
vengeance--blood for blood!

------------------------------------------------------------------------

A year has now passed.

Marion is now the wife of Max Barclay, and the pair spend the greater
part of their time at the beautiful old castle Kilmaronock, up in
Perthshire, for in her perfect happiness she prefers a healthy out-door
life to that of London.

Rolfe, who is still confidential secretary to Mr Samuel Statham, has
married Maud, and has abandoned his bachelor chambers in Jermyn Street
for a pretty little house in Curzon Street, where he is quite near to
the mansion in Park Lane.

Doctor Petrovitch has returned to Servia at the invitation of the King,
and is expected every day to accept the portfolio of Prime Minister.
Old Duncan Macgregor has been promoted to be general manager of the
great Clyde and Motherwell Locomotive Works; while Levi acts as servant
to his brother, their secret still being kept, and the position of
Statham Brothers in the City is to-day higher than it has ever been.

As regards the Park Lane mansion, with the red-striped sun-blinds--the
house you know well, without doubt--there is now no further mystery
concerning it.  The rumours regarding its beautiful interior, and the
sounds of piano-playing were all of course, the outcome of gossip.  The
truth, however, is now common knowledge, and society during the past
nine months or so has been amazed to see painters, decorators, and
upholsterers so busily at work.  It is evident that old Sam intends to
entertain largely during this coming season.

The house is now exquisitely furnished from top to bottom.  He no longer
sleeps on his little camp bed, or dines off a chump chop cooked over a
gas-stove by old Levi.  The dark shadow has now been lifted from his
life.

In fact, he no longer lives in the squalor of an empty house as "The
Pauper of Park Lane."

The End.






End of Project Gutenberg's The Pauper of Park Lane, by William Le Queux

*** 