The Pauper of Park Lane

“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.