Chapter Five.

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 château 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!

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 château 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 beenextremelykind 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!”

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 beenextremelykind 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?

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 thebrisé-brisécurtains 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.”

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 thebrisé-brisécurtains 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.”

Back to IndexNext