Chapter Nine.In which Levi Gives Advice.For fully five minutes Samuel Statham stood steadying himself by the back of his chair. His face was white and rigid, his jaw set, his breathing quick and excited, his hands trembling, his face full of a sudden horror.He had entirely changed. The sight of that shabby stranger had filled him with fear.Once or twice he glanced furtively at the window. Then, straightening himself in a vain endeavour to remain calm, he bent and crept back to the window in order to ascertain whether the man still remained. Bent and out of sight he approached the lace-edged curtain and peered through unseen.Yes; the fellow was still there. He had lit his pipe with calm unconcern, and was leaning back against the railings in full view of the house. The man’s attitude was that of complete triumph. Ah! what a fool he had been to have shown himself so openly as he had done! To think that this man of all men was still alive!He crept back again, trembling. His face was haggard and bloodless, the countenance of a man whose future was but a blank—the dismal blank of the grave.His whole body trembled as he sank into his writing-chair, and, leaning his elbows upon the desk, he buried his face in his hands and sobbed. Yes; he, the hard-headed financier, whose influence was felt in every corner of the world, the man who controlled millions and who loaned great sums to certain of the rulers of Europe, sobbed aloud.“Ah!” he cried to himself, “I was a fool when I disbelieved them. I thought that blackmail was their object in telling me the story of how that man was alive and had been seen. Therefore I only laughed at them and took no precaution. Ah! I was a fool, and my foolishness must end fatally. There is no way out of it for me—only death. I’ve been a fool—a confounded fool. I ought to have made certain; I ought not to have taken any risk. I’m wiser now than I was then. Age has brought me wisdom as well as destroying my belief in the honesty of men and the loyalty of friends”; and as he sighed heavily, his brow still bent upon his hand, he touched the bell, and old Levi appeared.“Levi,” he said, in a low unusual voice, “go quietly to that window and, without attracting attention, look outside at a man opposite.”The faithful old servant, somewhat surprised at these rather unusual instructions, walked stealthily to the window and peered through the lace insertion of thebrisé-brisé.Scarcely had he done so than, with a cry, he withdrew, and facing his master, stood staring at him.“Did you see anyone, Levi?” asked his master, raising his head suddenly.“Yes,” was the hoarse whisper of the man who stood there, white-faced in fear. “It’s him! I—I thought you said he was dead.”“No; he isn’t! He’s there in the flesh.”“And what are we to do?”“What can we do? He recognised me a moment ago, and he’s watching the house.”“Which means that you had better leave England for a considerable time.”“What!” cried Statham, in quick reproof. “What—run away? Never!”“But—well, in the circumstances, don’t you scent danger—a very grave danger?” asked the old servant whose devotion to his master had always been so marked.“When I am threatened I always face my accuser. I shall do so now,” was the great man’s calm reply, even though it were in absolute contradiction to his attitude only a few moments before. Perhaps it was that he did not wish old Levi to know his fear.“But—but that can only result in disaster,” remarked the old servant, who never addressed his master as “sir”—the pair were on too intimate terms for that. “If I might presume to advise, I think—”“No, Levi,” snapped the other; “you haven’t any right to give advice in this affair. I know my own business best, surely?”“And that man knows as much as you do—and more.”“They told me he was alive, and I—fool that I was—disbelieved them!” the old millionaire cried. “And there he is now, watching outside like a terrier outside a rat-hole. And I’m the rat, Levi—caught in my own trap!”“Is there no way out of this?” asked the other. “Surely you can escape if you so desire—get away to America, or to the Continent.”“And what’s the use. He’d follow. And even if he didn’t, think of what he can tell if he goes to the police.”“Yes; he could tell sufficient to cause Statham Brothers to close their doors—eh?” remarked the old servant very seriously.“That’s just it. I’ve been a confounded idiot. Rolfe warned me only the other day that the fellow was in London, but I said I wouldn’t believe him until I saw the man with my own eyes. To-day I have actually seen him, and there can be no mistake. He’s the man that—that I—”His sentence remained unfinished, for he sank into his chair and groaned, covered his face again with his hands in an attitude of deep remorse, while Levi stood by watching in silence.“Rolfe could help you in this matter,” the man exclaimed at last. “Where is he?”“I don’t know. I sent him yesterday to Belgrade, but last night he telephoned that he had lost the train.”“Then he may have left at nine o’clock this morning?”“Most probably.”“Then you must recall him by wire.”“No telegram can reach him till he gets to Servia, for I don’t know whether he’s gone from Ostend or Paris.”“They’d know in the City. Why not ask them?”“No; they wouldn’t know.”“Why?”“Because Rolfe had with him a big sum in German notes and a quantity of securities belonging to the National Bank of Servia. In that case he would not let anyone know his route, for fear of thieves. It is one of my strictest orders to him. Why he lost the train last night I can’t tell.”“Well, it’s a thousand pities we can’t get at him, for he’s the only man to help you out—of this difficulty.”“Yes; I quite agree. That shabby, down-at-heel man waiting outside is my master, Levi—the master of Statham Ltd. My future is in his hands!”He had raised his head, and sat staring at the beautiful picture upon the wall before him, the picture with its wonderful tints which had been copied in a hundred different places.His countenance was haggard and drawn, and in his eyes was a look of unspeakable terror, as though he were looking into his own grave, as indeed at that moment he was.The sombre melancholy-looking Levi stood watching for a moment, and then, creeping to the window, looked out into the sunshine of Park Lane.The ragged tramp was still there, idling against the railings, and smoking a short, dirty pipe quite unconcernedly. He was watching for the re-appearance of that white, startled face at the window—the face of the great Samuel Statham. “He’s still outside, I suppose?” queried the man at the other end of the room.Levi replied in the affirmative, whereat old Samuel clenched his teeth and muttered something which sounded like an oration. He was condemning himself for his disbelief in his secretary’s warnings.“Had I listened to him I could easily have saved myself—I could have prevented him from coming here,” he said in a meaning voice.“Yes; it would not have been difficult to have prevented this. After what has occurred that blackguard has no right to live.”“Aha! then you believe me, Levi?” cried the wretched man. “You do not blame me?” he asked, anxiously.“He was to blame—not you.”“Then I was right in acting as I did, you think—right to protect my interests.”“You were right in your self-defence,” the man answered, somewhat grey, sphinx-like, for Levi was a man whose thoughts one could never read from his thin, grey, expressionless face. “But you were injudicious when you disregarded Rolfe’s warning.”“I thought he had his own interests to serve,” was Statham’s reply.“Frankly, you believed it to be an attempt at blackmail. I quite follow you. But do you think Rolfe would be guilty of such a thing?”“My dear Levi, when a poor man is in love, as Rolfe is, it is a sore temptation to obtain by any means, fair or foul, sufficient to marry and support a wife. You and I were both young once—eh? And we thought that our love would last always. Where is yours to-day, and”—he sighed—“where is mine?”“You are right,” replied the old servant slowly, with a slight sigh. “You refer to little Marie. Ah! I can see her now, as plainly as she was then, forty years ago. How beautiful she was, how dainty, how perfect, and—ah!—how well you loved her. And what a tragedy—the tragedy of your life—the tragedy that has ever been hidden from the world—the—”“No! Enough, Levi!” cried his master hoarsely, staring straight before him. “Do not recall that to me, especially at this moment. It was the great tragedy of my life, until—until this present one which—which threatens to end it.”“But you are going to face the music. You have said!”“I may—and I may not.”Levi was silent again. Only the low ticking of the dock broke the quiet, and was followed by the rumble of a motor-’bus and the consequent tremor in the room.“At any rate, Samuel Statham will never act the coward,” the millionaire remarked at last, in a soft but distinct voice.“Rolfe can help you. Where is he—away just at the moment that he’s wanted,” Levi said.“My fault! My fault, Levi!” his master declared. “I disbelieved him, and sent him out to Servia to show him that I did not credit what he told me.”“You were a fool!” said Levi, bluntly. He never minced words when his master spoke confidentially.“I know I was. I have already admitted it,” exclaimed the financier. “But what puzzles me is that that man outside is really alive and in the flesh. I never dreamed that he would return to face me. He was dead—I could have sworn it.”“So you saw him dead—eh?”Old Statham drew a quick breath, and his face went ashen, for he saw how he had betrayed himself. Next instant he had recovered from his embarrassment and, bracing himself with an effort, said:“No—no, of course not. I—I only know what—well, what I’ve been told. I was misled wilfully by my enemies.”Levi looked straight into his face with a queer expression of disbelief. Statham noticed it, and it unnerved him.He had inadvertently made confession, and Levi did not credit his denial.The peril of the situation was complete!
For fully five minutes Samuel Statham stood steadying himself by the back of his chair. His face was white and rigid, his jaw set, his breathing quick and excited, his hands trembling, his face full of a sudden horror.
He had entirely changed. The sight of that shabby stranger had filled him with fear.
Once or twice he glanced furtively at the window. Then, straightening himself in a vain endeavour to remain calm, he bent and crept back to the window in order to ascertain whether the man still remained. Bent and out of sight he approached the lace-edged curtain and peered through unseen.
Yes; the fellow was still there. He had lit his pipe with calm unconcern, and was leaning back against the railings in full view of the house. The man’s attitude was that of complete triumph. Ah! what a fool he had been to have shown himself so openly as he had done! To think that this man of all men was still alive!
He crept back again, trembling. His face was haggard and bloodless, the countenance of a man whose future was but a blank—the dismal blank of the grave.
His whole body trembled as he sank into his writing-chair, and, leaning his elbows upon the desk, he buried his face in his hands and sobbed. Yes; he, the hard-headed financier, whose influence was felt in every corner of the world, the man who controlled millions and who loaned great sums to certain of the rulers of Europe, sobbed aloud.
“Ah!” he cried to himself, “I was a fool when I disbelieved them. I thought that blackmail was their object in telling me the story of how that man was alive and had been seen. Therefore I only laughed at them and took no precaution. Ah! I was a fool, and my foolishness must end fatally. There is no way out of it for me—only death. I’ve been a fool—a confounded fool. I ought to have made certain; I ought not to have taken any risk. I’m wiser now than I was then. Age has brought me wisdom as well as destroying my belief in the honesty of men and the loyalty of friends”; and as he sighed heavily, his brow still bent upon his hand, he touched the bell, and old Levi appeared.
“Levi,” he said, in a low unusual voice, “go quietly to that window and, without attracting attention, look outside at a man opposite.”
The faithful old servant, somewhat surprised at these rather unusual instructions, walked stealthily to the window and peered through the lace insertion of thebrisé-brisé.
Scarcely had he done so than, with a cry, he withdrew, and facing his master, stood staring at him.
“Did you see anyone, Levi?” asked his master, raising his head suddenly.
“Yes,” was the hoarse whisper of the man who stood there, white-faced in fear. “It’s him! I—I thought you said he was dead.”
“No; he isn’t! He’s there in the flesh.”
“And what are we to do?”
“What can we do? He recognised me a moment ago, and he’s watching the house.”
“Which means that you had better leave England for a considerable time.”
“What!” cried Statham, in quick reproof. “What—run away? Never!”
“But—well, in the circumstances, don’t you scent danger—a very grave danger?” asked the old servant whose devotion to his master had always been so marked.
“When I am threatened I always face my accuser. I shall do so now,” was the great man’s calm reply, even though it were in absolute contradiction to his attitude only a few moments before. Perhaps it was that he did not wish old Levi to know his fear.
“But—but that can only result in disaster,” remarked the old servant, who never addressed his master as “sir”—the pair were on too intimate terms for that. “If I might presume to advise, I think—”
“No, Levi,” snapped the other; “you haven’t any right to give advice in this affair. I know my own business best, surely?”
“And that man knows as much as you do—and more.”
“They told me he was alive, and I—fool that I was—disbelieved them!” the old millionaire cried. “And there he is now, watching outside like a terrier outside a rat-hole. And I’m the rat, Levi—caught in my own trap!”
“Is there no way out of this?” asked the other. “Surely you can escape if you so desire—get away to America, or to the Continent.”
“And what’s the use. He’d follow. And even if he didn’t, think of what he can tell if he goes to the police.”
“Yes; he could tell sufficient to cause Statham Brothers to close their doors—eh?” remarked the old servant very seriously.
“That’s just it. I’ve been a confounded idiot. Rolfe warned me only the other day that the fellow was in London, but I said I wouldn’t believe him until I saw the man with my own eyes. To-day I have actually seen him, and there can be no mistake. He’s the man that—that I—”
His sentence remained unfinished, for he sank into his chair and groaned, covered his face again with his hands in an attitude of deep remorse, while Levi stood by watching in silence.
“Rolfe could help you in this matter,” the man exclaimed at last. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know. I sent him yesterday to Belgrade, but last night he telephoned that he had lost the train.”
“Then he may have left at nine o’clock this morning?”
“Most probably.”
“Then you must recall him by wire.”
“No telegram can reach him till he gets to Servia, for I don’t know whether he’s gone from Ostend or Paris.”
“They’d know in the City. Why not ask them?”
“No; they wouldn’t know.”
“Why?”
“Because Rolfe had with him a big sum in German notes and a quantity of securities belonging to the National Bank of Servia. In that case he would not let anyone know his route, for fear of thieves. It is one of my strictest orders to him. Why he lost the train last night I can’t tell.”
“Well, it’s a thousand pities we can’t get at him, for he’s the only man to help you out—of this difficulty.”
“Yes; I quite agree. That shabby, down-at-heel man waiting outside is my master, Levi—the master of Statham Ltd. My future is in his hands!”
He had raised his head, and sat staring at the beautiful picture upon the wall before him, the picture with its wonderful tints which had been copied in a hundred different places.
His countenance was haggard and drawn, and in his eyes was a look of unspeakable terror, as though he were looking into his own grave, as indeed at that moment he was.
The sombre melancholy-looking Levi stood watching for a moment, and then, creeping to the window, looked out into the sunshine of Park Lane.
The ragged tramp was still there, idling against the railings, and smoking a short, dirty pipe quite unconcernedly. He was watching for the re-appearance of that white, startled face at the window—the face of the great Samuel Statham. “He’s still outside, I suppose?” queried the man at the other end of the room.
Levi replied in the affirmative, whereat old Samuel clenched his teeth and muttered something which sounded like an oration. He was condemning himself for his disbelief in his secretary’s warnings.
“Had I listened to him I could easily have saved myself—I could have prevented him from coming here,” he said in a meaning voice.
“Yes; it would not have been difficult to have prevented this. After what has occurred that blackguard has no right to live.”
“Aha! then you believe me, Levi?” cried the wretched man. “You do not blame me?” he asked, anxiously.
“He was to blame—not you.”
“Then I was right in acting as I did, you think—right to protect my interests.”
“You were right in your self-defence,” the man answered, somewhat grey, sphinx-like, for Levi was a man whose thoughts one could never read from his thin, grey, expressionless face. “But you were injudicious when you disregarded Rolfe’s warning.”
“I thought he had his own interests to serve,” was Statham’s reply.
“Frankly, you believed it to be an attempt at blackmail. I quite follow you. But do you think Rolfe would be guilty of such a thing?”
“My dear Levi, when a poor man is in love, as Rolfe is, it is a sore temptation to obtain by any means, fair or foul, sufficient to marry and support a wife. You and I were both young once—eh? And we thought that our love would last always. Where is yours to-day, and”—he sighed—“where is mine?”
“You are right,” replied the old servant slowly, with a slight sigh. “You refer to little Marie. Ah! I can see her now, as plainly as she was then, forty years ago. How beautiful she was, how dainty, how perfect, and—ah!—how well you loved her. And what a tragedy—the tragedy of your life—the tragedy that has ever been hidden from the world—the—”
“No! Enough, Levi!” cried his master hoarsely, staring straight before him. “Do not recall that to me, especially at this moment. It was the great tragedy of my life, until—until this present one which—which threatens to end it.”
“But you are going to face the music. You have said!”
“I may—and I may not.”
Levi was silent again. Only the low ticking of the dock broke the quiet, and was followed by the rumble of a motor-’bus and the consequent tremor in the room.
“At any rate, Samuel Statham will never act the coward,” the millionaire remarked at last, in a soft but distinct voice.
“Rolfe can help you. Where is he—away just at the moment that he’s wanted,” Levi said.
“My fault! My fault, Levi!” his master declared. “I disbelieved him, and sent him out to Servia to show him that I did not credit what he told me.”
“You were a fool!” said Levi, bluntly. He never minced words when his master spoke confidentially.
“I know I was. I have already admitted it,” exclaimed the financier. “But what puzzles me is that that man outside is really alive and in the flesh. I never dreamed that he would return to face me. He was dead—I could have sworn it.”
“So you saw him dead—eh?”
Old Statham drew a quick breath, and his face went ashen, for he saw how he had betrayed himself. Next instant he had recovered from his embarrassment and, bracing himself with an effort, said:
“No—no, of course not. I—I only know what—well, what I’ve been told. I was misled wilfully by my enemies.”
Levi looked straight into his face with a queer expression of disbelief. Statham noticed it, and it unnerved him.
He had inadvertently made confession, and Levi did not credit his denial.
The peril of the situation was complete!
Chapter Ten.Shows a Woman’s Peril.Several hours had gone by, hours which Samuel Statham spent, seated in a deep easy-chair near the empty fire grate, reviewing his long and eventful life.With his head buried in his hands, he reflected upon all the past—its tragedy and its prosperity. True, he had grown rich, wealthier than he had ever dreamed, but, ah! at what a cost! The world knew nothing. The world of finance, known in the City, looked upon him as a power to be reckoned with. By a stroke of that stubby, ink-stained pen which lay upon the writing-table he could influence the markets in Paris or Berlin. His aid and advice were sought by men who were foremost in the country’s commerce and politics, and he granted loans to princes and to kingdoms. And yet the tragedy of his own heart was a bitter one, and his secret one that none dreamed.He, like many another world-famous man, had a skeleton in his cupboard. And that day it had seen the light, and the sight of it had caused him to begin the slow and painful process of putting his house in order, prior to quitting it for ever—prior to seeking death by his own hand.For nearly an hour he had been huddled up in the big leather armchair almost immovable. He had scrawled two or three letters, and written the superscription upon their envelopes, and from his writing-table he had taken a bundle of letters tied with a faded blue ribbon. One by one he had read them through, and then, placing them in the grate, he had applied a match and burnt them all. Some other business documents followed, as well as an old parchment deed, which he first tried to tear, but at last burned until it was merely twisted tinder.It was now afternoon, and the silence of that house of mystery, wherein no one save Charles Rolfe ever penetrated, was unbroken. Across the soft green carpet lay a bar of warm sunlight that seemed strangely out of place in that sombre apartment, with its despairing owner, while outside the shabby stranger was no longer to be seen.He might be lurking in the vicinity, but Levi had an hour ago entered and informed his master that the patient vigil had been relaxed.Old Sam had dismissed him with a grunt of dissatisfaction. Those last hours of his life he wished to spend alone.He had been trying to see some way out of thecul-de-sacin which he found himself, but there was none. That shabby wayfarer—his worst enemy, had found him. Years ago he had sworn a terrible vengeance, but for secret reasons, known only to Statham himself, he had laughed his threats to scorn. Then came his death, and Statham was free, free to prosper, become rich and powerful, and use his great wealth for good or for evil as he felt so inclined.He had, however, used it for good. His contributions to charities were many and handsome. Among other things, he had built and endowed a wing of the London Hospital, for which his Majesty signified his intention of conferring a baronetcy upon him. But that honour he declined. To his brother in the City he had said, “I don’t wish for any honour, and I’ll remain plain Sam to the end of my days.” There was a reason—a secret reason—why he was unable to receive the distinction. None knew it—none even dreamed.The papers expressed wonder at the refusal, and people called him a fool. In Old Broad Street men were envious, and laughed in their sleeves. Yet if they had known the real reason they would surely have stood aghast.One day, however, his private secretary, young Rolfe, had come to him with a strange and improbable tale. His enemy was alive and well, and was, moreover, actually in England! He questioned the young man, and found certain discrepancies in the statement. Therefore, shrewd and far-seeing, he refused to believe it, and suspected blackmail to be the ultimate intention. He did not, however, suspect Rolfe of any inclination that way. He was both faithful and devoted.Five years before, Rolfe’s father, a man of considerable means who had been interested in his financial undertakings, burnt his fingers badly over a concession given by the Persian Government and became bankrupt. A year later he died, a ruined man, leaving a son Charles and a daughter Marion. The latter had been compelled, he understood, to earn her living in a London shop, and the former, who had only recently come down from Oxford, he had engaged as his confidential secretary.He had indeed done this because he had felt that Charlie’s father had made the ruinous speculation upon his advice, and it therefore behoved him to do some little for the dead man’s children. Few men in the City of London in these modern days are possessors of consciences, and those who have are usually too busy with their own affairs to think of the children of ruined friends.Old Sam Statham was a hard man, it must be admitted. He would drive a bargain to the last fraction of percentage, and in repayment of loans he was relentless sometimes. Yet the acts of private charity that he did were many, and he never sought to advertise them.In Charles Rolfe he had not been disappointed. Never once had he disobeyed the orders he had given, and, what was more, never once had he sought to penetrate beyond the door at the head of the staircase which shut off the ground floor from the one above.The first day that Rolfe came to attend to his correspondence he had told him that he must never ascend those stairs, and that if he did he would be discharged at a moment’s notice.This prohibition struck the young man as curious and lent additional colour to the whispers of mystery concerning the fine fashionable house. A thousand weird suggestions arose within his mind of what was concealed upstairs, yet he was powerless to investigate, and, after a few weeks, grew to regard his master’s words as those of an eccentric man whose enormous wealth had rendered a trifle extraordinary at times.Old Levi was janitor of that green baize door. Situated round the corner, no one standing in the hall could see it. Therefore its existence was unsuspected. But it was an iron door covered with green baize, and always kept locked. Levi kept the key, and to all Rolfe’s inquisitiveness he was dumb.“The master allows nobody upstairs,” was always his reply. “I sleep downstairs because I am not permitted to ascend.”What other servants might be there he knew not. Levi was the only other person he ever saw. The curtains at the upper windows always looked fresh and smart, and often as he went up Park Lane at night and glanced up at them, he saw lights in them, showing that they must be inhabited.At first all this puzzled him sorely. He had told Marion about it, and also Maud Petrovitch, both girls being intensely interested in the mystery of the house and the character of the unseen occupants of its upper floors.But as Charlie declared that old Statham was eccentric in everything, the mystery had gradually worn off and been forgotten.The old man’s face had sadly changed since early morning. His countenance now was that of a man in sheer despair. He had looked up the Continental Bradshaw and had scrawled half a dozen telegrams, addressed to his secretary, now on his way to Servia, and these had been taken to the post-office by Levi.But it was all in vain. The message to Belgrade could not possibly reach Rolfe for another three days, and then, alas! it would be too late.Before then he would be finished with all earthly things, and the world would denounce him as a coward. Yet even that would be preferable to standing and hearing his enemy’s denunciation than facing exposure, ridicule, and ruin.“Levi was right when he suggested flight,” he was murmuring to himself. “Yet where can I go? I’m too well-known. My portrait is constantly in the papers, and, save Greece, there is no country in which I could obtain sanctuary. Again, suppose I got safely to Greece, what about the firm’s credit? It would be gone. But if I die to-day, before this man returns, they cannot accuse the dead, and the firm, being in a sound financial position, cannot be attacked. No, only by my own death can I save the situation. I must sacrifice myself. There is no help for it! None! I must die!”He gazed wildly around the big old-fashioned room as though his eyes were searching for some means of escape.But there was none. His past had that day risen against him, and he was self-condemned.His chin sank again upon his chest, and his deep-set eyes were fixed upon the soft, dark-green carpet. The marble clock chimed the hour of four, and recalled him to a sense of his surroundings.He stretched himself, sighing deeply. He was wondering, when that shabby watcher, who held his life in his dirty talons, would return.Thoughts of the past, tragic and bitter, arose within him, and a muttered imprecation escaped his thin, white lips. He was faced with a problem that even the expenditure of his millions could not solve. He could purchase anything on earth, but he could not buy a few more years of his own life.He envied the man who was poor and struggling, the man with a cheerful wife and loving children, the man who worked and earned and had no far-reaching interests. The wage-earner was to him the ideal life of a man, for he obtained an income without the enormous responsibility consequent upon being a “principal.” His vast wealth was but a millstone about his neck.That little leather book, with its brass lock, wherein was recorded his financial position in a nutshell, was lying upon the table. When he had consulted it he had been appalled. He was worth far more than he had ever imagined. And yet, by an irony of fate, the accumulation of that wealth was now to cost him his life!The long bar of sunlight had been moving slowly across the carpet, all the afternoon. Old Sam Statham has risen and crossed again to his writing-table, searching among some papers in a drawer, and finding a silver cigarette case, much tarnished by long neglect. This he opened, and within was displayed one tiny object. It was not a cigarette, but a tiny glass tube with a glass stopper, containing a number of very small white pilules.He was gazing thoughtfully upon these, without removing the tube from its hiding-place, when, of a sudden, the door opened, and Levi, his pale face flushed with excitement and half breathless, entered, exclaiming in a low whisper:“Rolfe is here! Shall I show him in?”“Rolfe!” gasped the millionaire in a voice of amazement. “Are you serious, Levi?”“Serious? Of course. He has just called and asked if you can see him.”“Show him in instantly,” was Statham’s answer, as hope became at that instant renewed. “We may find a way out of this difficulty yet—with his aid.”“We may,” echoed Levi, closing the door for a moment behind him, so that the young man might not overhear his words. “We may; but recollect that he is a man in love.”“Well?”“And he loves that girl Maud Petrovitch. Don’t you understand—eh?” asked Levi, with an evil flash in his eyes.“Ah! I see,” replied his master, biting his under lip. “I follow you, Levi. It is good that you warned me. Leave the girl to me. Show him in.”“You know what I told you a few days ago—of his friendship with Petrovitch,” the old servant went on. “Recollect that what I said was the truth, and act upon the confidential information I gave you. In this matter you’ve a difficult task before you, but don’t be chicken-hearted and generous, as you are so very often. You’re in a tight corner, and you must get out of it somehow, by hook or by crook.”“Trust me to look after myself,” responded the millionaire, with a sudden smile upon his pale, haggard face, for he saw that with his secretary in London he might after all escape, and he had already closed the tarnished cigarette case that contained those pilules by which he had been contemplating ending his stormy existence. “Tell him to come in.”“But I beg of you to be firm. You’re not a fool,” urged Levi, bending earnestly towards him. “What is a woman’s honour as compared with your future? You must sacrifice her—or yourself. There are many women in the world, recollect—but there is only one Samuel Statham!”
Several hours had gone by, hours which Samuel Statham spent, seated in a deep easy-chair near the empty fire grate, reviewing his long and eventful life.
With his head buried in his hands, he reflected upon all the past—its tragedy and its prosperity. True, he had grown rich, wealthier than he had ever dreamed, but, ah! at what a cost! The world knew nothing. The world of finance, known in the City, looked upon him as a power to be reckoned with. By a stroke of that stubby, ink-stained pen which lay upon the writing-table he could influence the markets in Paris or Berlin. His aid and advice were sought by men who were foremost in the country’s commerce and politics, and he granted loans to princes and to kingdoms. And yet the tragedy of his own heart was a bitter one, and his secret one that none dreamed.
He, like many another world-famous man, had a skeleton in his cupboard. And that day it had seen the light, and the sight of it had caused him to begin the slow and painful process of putting his house in order, prior to quitting it for ever—prior to seeking death by his own hand.
For nearly an hour he had been huddled up in the big leather armchair almost immovable. He had scrawled two or three letters, and written the superscription upon their envelopes, and from his writing-table he had taken a bundle of letters tied with a faded blue ribbon. One by one he had read them through, and then, placing them in the grate, he had applied a match and burnt them all. Some other business documents followed, as well as an old parchment deed, which he first tried to tear, but at last burned until it was merely twisted tinder.
It was now afternoon, and the silence of that house of mystery, wherein no one save Charles Rolfe ever penetrated, was unbroken. Across the soft green carpet lay a bar of warm sunlight that seemed strangely out of place in that sombre apartment, with its despairing owner, while outside the shabby stranger was no longer to be seen.
He might be lurking in the vicinity, but Levi had an hour ago entered and informed his master that the patient vigil had been relaxed.
Old Sam had dismissed him with a grunt of dissatisfaction. Those last hours of his life he wished to spend alone.
He had been trying to see some way out of thecul-de-sacin which he found himself, but there was none. That shabby wayfarer—his worst enemy, had found him. Years ago he had sworn a terrible vengeance, but for secret reasons, known only to Statham himself, he had laughed his threats to scorn. Then came his death, and Statham was free, free to prosper, become rich and powerful, and use his great wealth for good or for evil as he felt so inclined.
He had, however, used it for good. His contributions to charities were many and handsome. Among other things, he had built and endowed a wing of the London Hospital, for which his Majesty signified his intention of conferring a baronetcy upon him. But that honour he declined. To his brother in the City he had said, “I don’t wish for any honour, and I’ll remain plain Sam to the end of my days.” There was a reason—a secret reason—why he was unable to receive the distinction. None knew it—none even dreamed.
The papers expressed wonder at the refusal, and people called him a fool. In Old Broad Street men were envious, and laughed in their sleeves. Yet if they had known the real reason they would surely have stood aghast.
One day, however, his private secretary, young Rolfe, had come to him with a strange and improbable tale. His enemy was alive and well, and was, moreover, actually in England! He questioned the young man, and found certain discrepancies in the statement. Therefore, shrewd and far-seeing, he refused to believe it, and suspected blackmail to be the ultimate intention. He did not, however, suspect Rolfe of any inclination that way. He was both faithful and devoted.
Five years before, Rolfe’s father, a man of considerable means who had been interested in his financial undertakings, burnt his fingers badly over a concession given by the Persian Government and became bankrupt. A year later he died, a ruined man, leaving a son Charles and a daughter Marion. The latter had been compelled, he understood, to earn her living in a London shop, and the former, who had only recently come down from Oxford, he had engaged as his confidential secretary.
He had indeed done this because he had felt that Charlie’s father had made the ruinous speculation upon his advice, and it therefore behoved him to do some little for the dead man’s children. Few men in the City of London in these modern days are possessors of consciences, and those who have are usually too busy with their own affairs to think of the children of ruined friends.
Old Sam Statham was a hard man, it must be admitted. He would drive a bargain to the last fraction of percentage, and in repayment of loans he was relentless sometimes. Yet the acts of private charity that he did were many, and he never sought to advertise them.
In Charles Rolfe he had not been disappointed. Never once had he disobeyed the orders he had given, and, what was more, never once had he sought to penetrate beyond the door at the head of the staircase which shut off the ground floor from the one above.
The first day that Rolfe came to attend to his correspondence he had told him that he must never ascend those stairs, and that if he did he would be discharged at a moment’s notice.
This prohibition struck the young man as curious and lent additional colour to the whispers of mystery concerning the fine fashionable house. A thousand weird suggestions arose within his mind of what was concealed upstairs, yet he was powerless to investigate, and, after a few weeks, grew to regard his master’s words as those of an eccentric man whose enormous wealth had rendered a trifle extraordinary at times.
Old Levi was janitor of that green baize door. Situated round the corner, no one standing in the hall could see it. Therefore its existence was unsuspected. But it was an iron door covered with green baize, and always kept locked. Levi kept the key, and to all Rolfe’s inquisitiveness he was dumb.
“The master allows nobody upstairs,” was always his reply. “I sleep downstairs because I am not permitted to ascend.”
What other servants might be there he knew not. Levi was the only other person he ever saw. The curtains at the upper windows always looked fresh and smart, and often as he went up Park Lane at night and glanced up at them, he saw lights in them, showing that they must be inhabited.
At first all this puzzled him sorely. He had told Marion about it, and also Maud Petrovitch, both girls being intensely interested in the mystery of the house and the character of the unseen occupants of its upper floors.
But as Charlie declared that old Statham was eccentric in everything, the mystery had gradually worn off and been forgotten.
The old man’s face had sadly changed since early morning. His countenance now was that of a man in sheer despair. He had looked up the Continental Bradshaw and had scrawled half a dozen telegrams, addressed to his secretary, now on his way to Servia, and these had been taken to the post-office by Levi.
But it was all in vain. The message to Belgrade could not possibly reach Rolfe for another three days, and then, alas! it would be too late.
Before then he would be finished with all earthly things, and the world would denounce him as a coward. Yet even that would be preferable to standing and hearing his enemy’s denunciation than facing exposure, ridicule, and ruin.
“Levi was right when he suggested flight,” he was murmuring to himself. “Yet where can I go? I’m too well-known. My portrait is constantly in the papers, and, save Greece, there is no country in which I could obtain sanctuary. Again, suppose I got safely to Greece, what about the firm’s credit? It would be gone. But if I die to-day, before this man returns, they cannot accuse the dead, and the firm, being in a sound financial position, cannot be attacked. No, only by my own death can I save the situation. I must sacrifice myself. There is no help for it! None! I must die!”
He gazed wildly around the big old-fashioned room as though his eyes were searching for some means of escape.
But there was none. His past had that day risen against him, and he was self-condemned.
His chin sank again upon his chest, and his deep-set eyes were fixed upon the soft, dark-green carpet. The marble clock chimed the hour of four, and recalled him to a sense of his surroundings.
He stretched himself, sighing deeply. He was wondering, when that shabby watcher, who held his life in his dirty talons, would return.
Thoughts of the past, tragic and bitter, arose within him, and a muttered imprecation escaped his thin, white lips. He was faced with a problem that even the expenditure of his millions could not solve. He could purchase anything on earth, but he could not buy a few more years of his own life.
He envied the man who was poor and struggling, the man with a cheerful wife and loving children, the man who worked and earned and had no far-reaching interests. The wage-earner was to him the ideal life of a man, for he obtained an income without the enormous responsibility consequent upon being a “principal.” His vast wealth was but a millstone about his neck.
That little leather book, with its brass lock, wherein was recorded his financial position in a nutshell, was lying upon the table. When he had consulted it he had been appalled. He was worth far more than he had ever imagined. And yet, by an irony of fate, the accumulation of that wealth was now to cost him his life!
The long bar of sunlight had been moving slowly across the carpet, all the afternoon. Old Sam Statham has risen and crossed again to his writing-table, searching among some papers in a drawer, and finding a silver cigarette case, much tarnished by long neglect. This he opened, and within was displayed one tiny object. It was not a cigarette, but a tiny glass tube with a glass stopper, containing a number of very small white pilules.
He was gazing thoughtfully upon these, without removing the tube from its hiding-place, when, of a sudden, the door opened, and Levi, his pale face flushed with excitement and half breathless, entered, exclaiming in a low whisper:
“Rolfe is here! Shall I show him in?”
“Rolfe!” gasped the millionaire in a voice of amazement. “Are you serious, Levi?”
“Serious? Of course. He has just called and asked if you can see him.”
“Show him in instantly,” was Statham’s answer, as hope became at that instant renewed. “We may find a way out of this difficulty yet—with his aid.”
“We may,” echoed Levi, closing the door for a moment behind him, so that the young man might not overhear his words. “We may; but recollect that he is a man in love.”
“Well?”
“And he loves that girl Maud Petrovitch. Don’t you understand—eh?” asked Levi, with an evil flash in his eyes.
“Ah! I see,” replied his master, biting his under lip. “I follow you, Levi. It is good that you warned me. Leave the girl to me. Show him in.”
“You know what I told you a few days ago—of his friendship with Petrovitch,” the old servant went on. “Recollect that what I said was the truth, and act upon the confidential information I gave you. In this matter you’ve a difficult task before you, but don’t be chicken-hearted and generous, as you are so very often. You’re in a tight corner, and you must get out of it somehow, by hook or by crook.”
“Trust me to look after myself,” responded the millionaire, with a sudden smile upon his pale, haggard face, for he saw that with his secretary in London he might after all escape, and he had already closed the tarnished cigarette case that contained those pilules by which he had been contemplating ending his stormy existence. “Tell him to come in.”
“But I beg of you to be firm. You’re not a fool,” urged Levi, bending earnestly towards him. “What is a woman’s honour as compared with your future? You must sacrifice her—or yourself. There are many women in the world, recollect—but there is only one Samuel Statham!”
Chapter Eleven.Samuel Statham Makes Confession.When Rolfe entered old Sam’s presence he saw that something was amiss.Was it possible that his employer knew his secret—the secret of his visit to Cromwell Road on the previous night? Perhaps he did. The suggestion crossed his mind, and he stood breathless for a few seconds.“I thought you had left for Servia, Rolfe,” exclaimed the old man in his thin, weak voice. He had seated himself at the writing-table prior to his secretary’s appearance, and had tried to assume a businesslike air. But his face was unusually drawn and haggard.“I missed the train last night,” was the young man’s reply. “It is useless to leave till to-night, as I can then catch the Orient Express from Paris to-morrow morning. Therefore I thought I’d call to see if you have any further instructions.”The old man grunted. His keen eyes were fixed upon the other’s face. The explanation was an unsatisfactory one.Samuel Statham, as became a great financier, had a wonderful knack of knowing all that passed. He had his spies and secret agents in every capital, and was always well informed of every financial move in progress. To him, early information often meant profits of many thousands, and that information was indeed paid for generously.In London, too, his spies were ever at work. Queer, mysterious persons of both sexes often called there in Park Lane, and were admitted to private audience of the king of the financial world. Rolfe knew them to be his secret agents, and, further, that his employer’s knowledge of his own movements was often wider than he had ever dreamed.No man in the whole City of London was more shrewd or more cunning than old Sam Statham. It was to the interest of Statham Brothers to be so. Indeed, he had once remarked to his secretary that no secret, however carefully kept, was safe from his agents, and that he could discover without difficulty anything he wanted to know.Had he discovered the truth regarding the strange disappearance of the Doctor and his daughter?“Why did you lose the train last night, Rolfe?” asked the great financier. “You did not go to Charing Cross,” he added.Rolfe held his breath again. Yes, as he had feared, his departure had been watched for.“I—well, it was too late, and so I didn’t attempt to catch the train.”“Why too late?” asked Statham, reprovingly. “In a matter of business—and especially of the magnitude of yours at this moment—one should never be behindhand. Your arrival in Belgrade twenty-four hours late may mean a loss of about twenty thousand to the firm.”“I hope not, sir,” Rolfe exclaimed, quickly. “I trust that the business will go through all right. I—I did my best to catch the train!”“Your best! Why, you had half a day in which to pack and get to Charing Cross!”“I quite admit that, but I was prevented.”“By what?” asked Statham, fixing his eyes upon the young man before him.“By a matter of private business.”“Yes—a woman! You may as well admit it, Rolfe, for I know all about it. You can’t deceive me, you know.”The other’s face went ghastly white, much to Statham’s surprise. The latter saw that he had unconsciously touched a point which had filled his secretary with either shame or fear, and made a mental note of it.“I don’t deny it, sir,” he faltered, much confused. He had no idea that his employer had any knowledge of Maud.“Well—you’re an idiot,” he said, very plainly. “You’ll never get on in the world if you’re tied to a woman’s shoe strings, depend upon it. Girls are the ruin of young men like you. When a man is free, he’s his own master, but as soon as he becomes the slave of a pretty face then he’s a lost soul both to himself and to those who employ him. Take the advice of an old man, Rolfe,” he added, not unkindly. “Cast off the trammels, and be free to go hither and thither. When I was your age, I believed in what men call love. Bah! Live as long as I have, and watch human nature as I have watched it, and you’ll come to the same conclusion as I have arrived at.”“And what is that?” asked Rolfe, for such conversation was altogether unusual.“That woman is man’s ruin always—that the more beautiful the woman the more complete the ruin,” he answered, in the hard, unsympathetic way which he sometimes did when he wished to emphasise a point.Charlie Rolfe was silent. He was familiar with old Sam’s eccentricities, one of which was that he must never be contradicted. His amazing prosperity had induced an overbearing egotism. It was better to make no reply.At heart the old man was beside himself with delight that his secretary had not left London, but it was his policy never to betray pleasure at anything. He seldom bestowed a single word of praise upon anyone. He was silent when satisfied, and bitterly sarcastic when not pleased.“I do not think, sir, that whatever you may have heard concerning the lady in question is to her detriment,” he could not refrain from remarking.“All that I have heard is very favourable, I admit. Understand that I say nothing against the lady. What I object to is the principle of a young man being in love. Why court unhappiness? You’ll meet with sufficient of it in the world, I can assure you. Look at me! Should I be what I am if I had saddled myself with a woman and her worries of society, frocks, children, petty jealousies, flirtations, and the thousand and one cares and annoyances which make a man’s life a burden to him.“No. Take my advice, and let those fools who run after trouble go their own way. Sentimentalists may write screeds and poets sonnets, but you’ll find, my boy, that the only true friend you’ll have in life is your own pocket.”Charlie was not in the humour to be lectured, and more especially upon his passionate devotion to Maud. He was annoyed that Statham should have found it out, and yet, knowing the wide-reaching sources of information possessed by the old millionaire, it was scarcely to be wondered at.“Of course,” he admitted, somewhat impatiently, “there is a good deal of truth in your argument, even though it be a rather blunt one. Yet are not some men happy with the love of a good wife?”“A few—alas! a very few,” Statham replied. “Think of our greatest men. Nearly all of them have had skeletons in their cupboards because of their early infatuations. Of some, their domestic unhappiness is well-known. Others have, however, hidden it from the world, preferring to suffer than to humiliate themselves or admit their foolishness,” he said, with a calm cynicism. “To-day you think me heartless, without sentiment, because you are inexperienced. Twenty years hence recollect my words, and you will be fully in accord with me, and probably regret deeply not having followed my advice.”With his thin hand he turned over some papers idly, and then, after a moment’s pause, his manner changed, and he said, with a good-humoured laugh:“You won’t listen to me, I know, Rolfe. So what is the use of expounding my theory?”“It is very valuable,” the young man declared, deferentially. “I know that you are antagonistic towards women. All London is aware of that.”“And they think me eccentric—eh?” he laughed. “Well, I do not want them. Society I have no use for. It is all too shallow, too ephemeral, and too much make-believe. If I wished to go into Society to-morrow, it would welcome me. The door of every house in this neighbourhood would be opened to me. Why? Because my money is the key by which I can enter.“The most exclusive set would be delighted to come here, eat my dinners, listen to my music, and borrow my money. But who among the whole of that narrow, fast-living little world would care to know me as a poor man? I have known what it is to be poor, Rolfe,” he went on; “poorer than yourself. The world knows nothing of my past—of the romance of my life. One day, when I am dead, it may perhaps know. But until then I preserve my secret.”He was leaning back in his padded chair, staring straight before him, just as he had been an hour ago.“Yes,” he continued; “I recollect one cold January night, when I passed along the pavement yonder,” and jerked his finger in the direction of the street. “I was penniless, hungry, and chilled to the bone. A man in evening-dress was coming from this very house, and I begged from him a few coppers, for I had tasted nothing that day, and further, my poor mother was dying at home—dying of starvation. The man refused, and cursed me for daring to beg charity. I turned upon him and cursed him in return; I vowed that if ever I had money I would one day live in his house. He jeered at me and called me a maniac.“But, strangely enough, my words were prophetic. My fortune turned. I prospered. I am to-day living in the house of the man who cursed me, and that man himself is compelled to beg charity of me! Ah, yes!” he exclaimed suddenly, rising from his chair with a sigh. “The world little dreams of what my past has been. Only one man knows—the man whom you told me, Rolfe, a little time ago, is in England and alive.”“What—the man Adams?” exclaimed Rolfe, in surprise.“Yes,” replied his employer, in a hoarse, changed voice. “He knows everything.”“Things that would be detrimental to you?” asked his private secretary slowly.“He is unscrupulous, and would prove certain things that—well, I—I admit to you in strictest confidence, Rolfe, that it would be impossible for me to face.”Charlie stared at him in utter amazement.“Then you have satisfied yourself that what I told you is correct?”“I disbelieved you when you told me. But I no longer doubt.”“Why?”“Because I have seen him to-day—seen him with my own eyes. He was standing outside, there against the railings, watching the house.”“And did he see you?”“He saw and recognised me.”Charlie gave vent to a low whistle. He recognised the seriousness of the situation. As private secretary he was in old Statham’s confidence to a certain extent, but never before had he made such an admission of fear as that he had just done.“Where is he now?”“I don’t know. Gone to prepare his coup for my ruin, most probably,” was the old man’s response, in a strained unnatural voice. “But listen, Rolfe. I have told you to-day what I would tell no other man. In you I have reposed many confidences, because I know you well enough to be confident that you will never betray them.”“You honour me, sir, by those words,” the young man said. “I endeavour to serve you faithfully as it is my duty. I am not forgetful of all that you have done for my sister and myself.”“I know that you are grateful, Rolfe,” he said, placing his bony hand upon the young man’s shoulder. “Therefore I seek your aid in this very delicate affair. The man Adams has returned from the grave—how, I do not know. So utterly bewildering is it all that I was at first under the belief that my eyes were deceiving me—that some man had been made up to resemble him and to impose upon me. Yet there is no imposture. The man whom I know to be dead is here in London, and alive!”“But did you actually see him dead?” asked Rolfe, innocently.Old Statham started quickly at the question.“Er—well—no. I mean, I didn’t exactly see him dead myself,” he faltered.“Then how are you so very positive that he died?”“Well, there was a funeral, a certificate, and insurance money was, I believe, paid.”“That does not prove that he died,” remarked Rolfe. “I thought I understood you to say distinctly when we spoke of it the other day that you had actually stood beside the dead body of John Adams, and that you had satisfied yourself that life was extinct.”“No! no!” cried the old man, uneasily, his face blanched. “If I led you to suppose that, I was wrong. I meant to imply that, from information furnished by others, I was under the belief that he had died.”Charlie Rolfe was silent. Why had his employer altered his declaration so as to suit the exigencies of the moment?He raised his eyes to old Sam’s countenance, and saw that it was the face of a man upon whom the shadow of a crime had fallen.
When Rolfe entered old Sam’s presence he saw that something was amiss.
Was it possible that his employer knew his secret—the secret of his visit to Cromwell Road on the previous night? Perhaps he did. The suggestion crossed his mind, and he stood breathless for a few seconds.
“I thought you had left for Servia, Rolfe,” exclaimed the old man in his thin, weak voice. He had seated himself at the writing-table prior to his secretary’s appearance, and had tried to assume a businesslike air. But his face was unusually drawn and haggard.
“I missed the train last night,” was the young man’s reply. “It is useless to leave till to-night, as I can then catch the Orient Express from Paris to-morrow morning. Therefore I thought I’d call to see if you have any further instructions.”
The old man grunted. His keen eyes were fixed upon the other’s face. The explanation was an unsatisfactory one.
Samuel Statham, as became a great financier, had a wonderful knack of knowing all that passed. He had his spies and secret agents in every capital, and was always well informed of every financial move in progress. To him, early information often meant profits of many thousands, and that information was indeed paid for generously.
In London, too, his spies were ever at work. Queer, mysterious persons of both sexes often called there in Park Lane, and were admitted to private audience of the king of the financial world. Rolfe knew them to be his secret agents, and, further, that his employer’s knowledge of his own movements was often wider than he had ever dreamed.
No man in the whole City of London was more shrewd or more cunning than old Sam Statham. It was to the interest of Statham Brothers to be so. Indeed, he had once remarked to his secretary that no secret, however carefully kept, was safe from his agents, and that he could discover without difficulty anything he wanted to know.
Had he discovered the truth regarding the strange disappearance of the Doctor and his daughter?
“Why did you lose the train last night, Rolfe?” asked the great financier. “You did not go to Charing Cross,” he added.
Rolfe held his breath again. Yes, as he had feared, his departure had been watched for.
“I—well, it was too late, and so I didn’t attempt to catch the train.”
“Why too late?” asked Statham, reprovingly. “In a matter of business—and especially of the magnitude of yours at this moment—one should never be behindhand. Your arrival in Belgrade twenty-four hours late may mean a loss of about twenty thousand to the firm.”
“I hope not, sir,” Rolfe exclaimed, quickly. “I trust that the business will go through all right. I—I did my best to catch the train!”
“Your best! Why, you had half a day in which to pack and get to Charing Cross!”
“I quite admit that, but I was prevented.”
“By what?” asked Statham, fixing his eyes upon the young man before him.
“By a matter of private business.”
“Yes—a woman! You may as well admit it, Rolfe, for I know all about it. You can’t deceive me, you know.”
The other’s face went ghastly white, much to Statham’s surprise. The latter saw that he had unconsciously touched a point which had filled his secretary with either shame or fear, and made a mental note of it.
“I don’t deny it, sir,” he faltered, much confused. He had no idea that his employer had any knowledge of Maud.
“Well—you’re an idiot,” he said, very plainly. “You’ll never get on in the world if you’re tied to a woman’s shoe strings, depend upon it. Girls are the ruin of young men like you. When a man is free, he’s his own master, but as soon as he becomes the slave of a pretty face then he’s a lost soul both to himself and to those who employ him. Take the advice of an old man, Rolfe,” he added, not unkindly. “Cast off the trammels, and be free to go hither and thither. When I was your age, I believed in what men call love. Bah! Live as long as I have, and watch human nature as I have watched it, and you’ll come to the same conclusion as I have arrived at.”
“And what is that?” asked Rolfe, for such conversation was altogether unusual.
“That woman is man’s ruin always—that the more beautiful the woman the more complete the ruin,” he answered, in the hard, unsympathetic way which he sometimes did when he wished to emphasise a point.
Charlie Rolfe was silent. He was familiar with old Sam’s eccentricities, one of which was that he must never be contradicted. His amazing prosperity had induced an overbearing egotism. It was better to make no reply.
At heart the old man was beside himself with delight that his secretary had not left London, but it was his policy never to betray pleasure at anything. He seldom bestowed a single word of praise upon anyone. He was silent when satisfied, and bitterly sarcastic when not pleased.
“I do not think, sir, that whatever you may have heard concerning the lady in question is to her detriment,” he could not refrain from remarking.
“All that I have heard is very favourable, I admit. Understand that I say nothing against the lady. What I object to is the principle of a young man being in love. Why court unhappiness? You’ll meet with sufficient of it in the world, I can assure you. Look at me! Should I be what I am if I had saddled myself with a woman and her worries of society, frocks, children, petty jealousies, flirtations, and the thousand and one cares and annoyances which make a man’s life a burden to him.
“No. Take my advice, and let those fools who run after trouble go their own way. Sentimentalists may write screeds and poets sonnets, but you’ll find, my boy, that the only true friend you’ll have in life is your own pocket.”
Charlie was not in the humour to be lectured, and more especially upon his passionate devotion to Maud. He was annoyed that Statham should have found it out, and yet, knowing the wide-reaching sources of information possessed by the old millionaire, it was scarcely to be wondered at.
“Of course,” he admitted, somewhat impatiently, “there is a good deal of truth in your argument, even though it be a rather blunt one. Yet are not some men happy with the love of a good wife?”
“A few—alas! a very few,” Statham replied. “Think of our greatest men. Nearly all of them have had skeletons in their cupboards because of their early infatuations. Of some, their domestic unhappiness is well-known. Others have, however, hidden it from the world, preferring to suffer than to humiliate themselves or admit their foolishness,” he said, with a calm cynicism. “To-day you think me heartless, without sentiment, because you are inexperienced. Twenty years hence recollect my words, and you will be fully in accord with me, and probably regret deeply not having followed my advice.”
With his thin hand he turned over some papers idly, and then, after a moment’s pause, his manner changed, and he said, with a good-humoured laugh:
“You won’t listen to me, I know, Rolfe. So what is the use of expounding my theory?”
“It is very valuable,” the young man declared, deferentially. “I know that you are antagonistic towards women. All London is aware of that.”
“And they think me eccentric—eh?” he laughed. “Well, I do not want them. Society I have no use for. It is all too shallow, too ephemeral, and too much make-believe. If I wished to go into Society to-morrow, it would welcome me. The door of every house in this neighbourhood would be opened to me. Why? Because my money is the key by which I can enter.
“The most exclusive set would be delighted to come here, eat my dinners, listen to my music, and borrow my money. But who among the whole of that narrow, fast-living little world would care to know me as a poor man? I have known what it is to be poor, Rolfe,” he went on; “poorer than yourself. The world knows nothing of my past—of the romance of my life. One day, when I am dead, it may perhaps know. But until then I preserve my secret.”
He was leaning back in his padded chair, staring straight before him, just as he had been an hour ago.
“Yes,” he continued; “I recollect one cold January night, when I passed along the pavement yonder,” and jerked his finger in the direction of the street. “I was penniless, hungry, and chilled to the bone. A man in evening-dress was coming from this very house, and I begged from him a few coppers, for I had tasted nothing that day, and further, my poor mother was dying at home—dying of starvation. The man refused, and cursed me for daring to beg charity. I turned upon him and cursed him in return; I vowed that if ever I had money I would one day live in his house. He jeered at me and called me a maniac.
“But, strangely enough, my words were prophetic. My fortune turned. I prospered. I am to-day living in the house of the man who cursed me, and that man himself is compelled to beg charity of me! Ah, yes!” he exclaimed suddenly, rising from his chair with a sigh. “The world little dreams of what my past has been. Only one man knows—the man whom you told me, Rolfe, a little time ago, is in England and alive.”
“What—the man Adams?” exclaimed Rolfe, in surprise.
“Yes,” replied his employer, in a hoarse, changed voice. “He knows everything.”
“Things that would be detrimental to you?” asked his private secretary slowly.
“He is unscrupulous, and would prove certain things that—well, I—I admit to you in strictest confidence, Rolfe, that it would be impossible for me to face.”
Charlie stared at him in utter amazement.
“Then you have satisfied yourself that what I told you is correct?”
“I disbelieved you when you told me. But I no longer doubt.”
“Why?”
“Because I have seen him to-day—seen him with my own eyes. He was standing outside, there against the railings, watching the house.”
“And did he see you?”
“He saw and recognised me.”
Charlie gave vent to a low whistle. He recognised the seriousness of the situation. As private secretary he was in old Statham’s confidence to a certain extent, but never before had he made such an admission of fear as that he had just done.
“Where is he now?”
“I don’t know. Gone to prepare his coup for my ruin, most probably,” was the old man’s response, in a strained unnatural voice. “But listen, Rolfe. I have told you to-day what I would tell no other man. In you I have reposed many confidences, because I know you well enough to be confident that you will never betray them.”
“You honour me, sir, by those words,” the young man said. “I endeavour to serve you faithfully as it is my duty. I am not forgetful of all that you have done for my sister and myself.”
“I know that you are grateful, Rolfe,” he said, placing his bony hand upon the young man’s shoulder. “Therefore I seek your aid in this very delicate affair. The man Adams has returned from the grave—how, I do not know. So utterly bewildering is it all that I was at first under the belief that my eyes were deceiving me—that some man had been made up to resemble him and to impose upon me. Yet there is no imposture. The man whom I know to be dead is here in London, and alive!”
“But did you actually see him dead?” asked Rolfe, innocently.
Old Statham started quickly at the question.
“Er—well—no. I mean, I didn’t exactly see him dead myself,” he faltered.
“Then how are you so very positive that he died?”
“Well, there was a funeral, a certificate, and insurance money was, I believe, paid.”
“That does not prove that he died,” remarked Rolfe. “I thought I understood you to say distinctly when we spoke of it the other day that you had actually stood beside the dead body of John Adams, and that you had satisfied yourself that life was extinct.”
“No! no!” cried the old man, uneasily, his face blanched. “If I led you to suppose that, I was wrong. I meant to imply that, from information furnished by others, I was under the belief that he had died.”
Charlie Rolfe was silent. Why had his employer altered his declaration so as to suit the exigencies of the moment?
He raised his eyes to old Sam’s countenance, and saw that it was the face of a man upon whom the shadow of a crime had fallen.
Chapter Twelve.In which a Woman’s Honour is at Stake.“John Adams has seen you!” exclaimed Rolfe, slowly. “Therefore the situation is, I understand, one of extreme peril. Is that so?”“Exactly,” responded the millionaire, in a thin, weak voice. “But by your aid I may yet extricate myself.”The younger man saw that the other was full of fear. Never had he seen his employer so nervous and utterly unstrung. The mystery of it all fascinated him. Statham had unwittingly acknowledged having been present at the presumed death of John Adams, and that in itself was a very suspicious circumstance.“Whatever assistance I can give I am quite ready to render it,” he said, little dreaming what dire result would attend that offer.“Ah, yes!” cried the old man, thankfully, grasping his secretary’s hand. “I knew you would not refuse, Rolfe. If you succeed I shall owe my life to you; you understand—my life!” And he looked straight into the young man’s face, adding, “And Samuel Statham never forgets to repay a service rendered.”“I look for no repayment,” he said. “You have been so very good to my sister and myself that I owe you a deep debt of gratitude.”“Ah! your sister. Where is she now?”“At Cunnington’s, in Oxford Street.”“Oh, yes! I forgot. I wrote to Cunnington myself regarding her, didn’t I? I hope she’s comfortable. If not, tell me. I’m the largest shareholder in that business.”“You are very kind,” replied the young man. “But she always says she is most comfortable, and all the principals are very kind to her. Of course, it was hard for her at first when she commenced to earn her own living. The hours, the confinement, and the rigorous rules were irksome to a girl of her character, always been used as she had to freedom and a country life.”“Yes,” replied the old man rather thoughtfully. “I suppose so. But if she’s getting on well, I am quite satisfied. Should she have any complaint to make, don’t fail to let me know.”Rolfe thanked him. The old fellow, notwithstanding his eccentricities, was always a generous master.There was a pause, during which the millionaire walked to the window, peered out to see if the shabby watcher had returned, and then came back again to his table.“Rolfe,” he commenced, as he seated himself, with surprising calmness, “I have spoken more openly to you this afternoon than I have spoken to anyone for many years. First, you must remain in London. Just ring them up in the City, and tell them to send Sheldon here, and say that he must leave for Belgrade to-night. I will see him at seven o’clock.”The secretary took up the transmitter of the private telephone line to the offices of Statham Brothers in Old Broad Street, and in a few moments was delivering the principal’s message to the manager.“Sheldon will be here at seven for instructions,” he said, as he replaced the transmitter.“Then sit down, Rolfe—and listen,” the old man commanded, indicating a chair at the side of the table.The younger man obeyed, and the great financier commenced.“You have promised your help, and also complete secrecy, have you not?”“I shall say nothing,” answered the other, at the same time eager to hear some closed page in the old man’s history. “Rely upon my discretion.”He was wondering whether the grey-faced old fellow was aware of the startling events of the previous evening in Cromwell Road. His spies had told him of Maud. They perhaps had discovered that amazing truth of what had occurred in that house, now deserted and empty.Was it possible that old Statham, being in possession of his secret, did not now fear to repose confidence in him, for he knew that if he were betrayed he could on his part make an exposure that must prove both ruinous and fatal. The crafty old financier was not the person to place himself unreservedly in the hands of any man who could possibly turn his enemy. He had an ulterior motive, without a doubt. But what it was Charles Rolfe was unable to discover.“The mouth of that man Adams must be closed,” said the old man, in a slow, deliberate voice, “and you alone are able to accomplish it. Do this for me, and I can afford to pay well,” and he regarded the young man with a meaning look.Was it possible that he suggested foul play. Rolfe wondered. Was he suggesting that he should lurk in some dark corner and take the life of the shabby wayfarer, who had recently returned to England after a long absence?“It is not a question of payment,” Rolfe replied. “It is whether any effort of mine can be successful.”“Yes; I know. I admit, Rolfe, that I was a fool. I ought to have listened to you when you first told me of his re-appearance, and I ought to have approached him and purchased his silence. I thought myself shrewd, and my cautiousness has been my undoing.”“From the little I know, I fear that the purchase of the fellow’s silence is now out of the question. A week ago it could have been effected, but now he has cast all thought of himself to the winds, and his only object is revenge.”“Revenge upon myself,” sighed the old man, his face growing a trifle paler as he foresaw what a terrible vengeance was within the power of that shabby stranger. “Ah! I know. He will be relentless. He has every reason to be if what has been told him had been true. A man lied—the man who is dead. Therefore the truth—the truth that would save my honour and my life—can never be told,” he added, with a desperate look upon his countenance.“Then you have been the victim of a liar?” Rolfe said. “Yes—of a man who, jealous of my prosperity, endeavoured to ruin me by making a false statement. But his reward came quickly. I retaliated with my financial strength, and in a year he was ruined. To recoup himself he committed forgery, was arrested, and six months later died in prison—but without confessing that what he had said concerning me was a foul invention. John Adams believed it—and because of that, among other things, is my bitterest enemy.”“But is there no way of proving the truth?” asked Rolfe, surprised at this story.“None. The fellow put forward in support of his story proofs which he had forged. Adams naturally believed they were genuine.”“And where are those proofs now?”“Probably in Adams’ possession. He has no doubt hoarded them for use at the moment of his triumph.”Rolfe did not speak for several moments.“A week ago those proofs might, I believe, have been purchased for a round sum.”“Could they not be purchased now? From the man’s appearance he is penniless.”“Not so poor as you think. If what I’ve heard is true, he is in possession of funds. His shabbiness is only assumed. Have you any knowledge of a certain man named Lyle—a short man slightly deformed.”“Lyle!” gasped his employer. “Do you mean Leonard Lyle? What do you know of him?”“I saw him in the company of Adams. It is he who supplies the latter with money.”“Lyle!” cried Statham, his eyes glaring in amazement. “Lyle here—in London?”“He was here a week ago. You know him?”“Know him—yes!” answered the old millionaire, hoarsely. “Are you certain that he has become Adams’ friend?”“I saw them together with my own eyes. They were sitting in the Café Royal, in Regent Street. Adams was in evening-dress, and wore an opera-hat. They’d been to the Empire together.”“Why didn’t you tell me all this before?” asked Statham, in a tone of blank despair. “I—I see now all the difficulties that have arisen. The pair have united to wreak their vengeance upon me, and I am powerless and unprotected.”“But who is this man Leonard Lyle?” inquired the secretary.“A man without a conscience. He was a mining engineer, and is now, I suppose—a short, white-moustached man, with a slightly humped back and a squeaky voice.”“The same.”“Why didn’t you tell me this before? If Lyle knows Adams, the position is doubly dangerous,” he exclaimed, in abject dismay. “No,” he added, bitterly; “there can be no way out.”“I said nothing because you had refused to believe.”“You saw them together after you had told me of Adams’ return, or before?”“After,” he replied. “Even though you refused to believe me, I continued to remain watchful in your interests and those of the firm. I spent several evenings in watching their movements.”“Ah! you are loyal to me, I know, Rolfe. You shall not regret this. Hitherto I have not treated you well, but I will now try and atone for the manner in which I misjudged you. I ask your pardon.”“For what?” inquired Rolfe, in surprise.“For believing ill of you,” was all the old man vouchsafed.“I tried to do my duty as your secretary,” was all he said.“Your duty. You have done more. You have watched my enemies even though I sneered at your well-meant warning,” he said. “But if you have watched, you perhaps know where the pair are in hiding.”“Lyle lives at the First Avenue Hotel, in Holborn. Adams lives in a small furnished flat in Addison Mansions, close to Addison Road railway station.”“Lives there in preference to an hotel because he can go in and out shabby and down-at-heel without attracting comment—eh?”“I suppose so. I had great difficulty in following him to his hiding-place without arousing his suspicions.”“Does he really mean mischief?” asked the principal of Statham Brothers, bending slightly towards his secretary.“Yes; undoubtedly he does. The pair are here with the intention of bringing ruin upon you and upon the house of Statham,” was Rolfe’s quiet reply.“Then only you can save me, Rolfe,” cried the old man, starting up wildly.“How? Tell me, and I am ready to act upon your instructions,” Rolfe said.The millionaire placed his hand upon the young man’s shoulder and said:“Repeat those words.”Rolfe did so.“And you will not seek to inquire the reason of a request I may make to you, even though it may sound an extraordinary and perhaps mysterious one?”“I will act as you wish, without desiring to know your motives.”The great financier stood looking straight into his secretary’s eyes. He was deeply in earnest, for his very life now depended upon the other’s assent. How could he put the proposal to the man before him?“Then I take that as a promise, Rolfe,” he said at last. “You will not withdraw. You will swear to assist me at all hazards—to save me from these men.”“I swear.”“Good! Then to-day—nay, at this very hour—you must make what no doubt will be to you a great sacrifice.”“What do you mean?” asked Rolfe, quickly.“I mean,” the old man said, in a very slow distinct voice—“I mean that you must first sacrifice the honour of the woman you love—Maud Petrovitch.”“Maud Petrovitch!” he gasped, utterly mystified.“Yes,” he answered. “You have promised to save me—you have sworn to assist me, and the sacrifice is imperative! It is her honour—or my death!”
“John Adams has seen you!” exclaimed Rolfe, slowly. “Therefore the situation is, I understand, one of extreme peril. Is that so?”
“Exactly,” responded the millionaire, in a thin, weak voice. “But by your aid I may yet extricate myself.”
The younger man saw that the other was full of fear. Never had he seen his employer so nervous and utterly unstrung. The mystery of it all fascinated him. Statham had unwittingly acknowledged having been present at the presumed death of John Adams, and that in itself was a very suspicious circumstance.
“Whatever assistance I can give I am quite ready to render it,” he said, little dreaming what dire result would attend that offer.
“Ah, yes!” cried the old man, thankfully, grasping his secretary’s hand. “I knew you would not refuse, Rolfe. If you succeed I shall owe my life to you; you understand—my life!” And he looked straight into the young man’s face, adding, “And Samuel Statham never forgets to repay a service rendered.”
“I look for no repayment,” he said. “You have been so very good to my sister and myself that I owe you a deep debt of gratitude.”
“Ah! your sister. Where is she now?”
“At Cunnington’s, in Oxford Street.”
“Oh, yes! I forgot. I wrote to Cunnington myself regarding her, didn’t I? I hope she’s comfortable. If not, tell me. I’m the largest shareholder in that business.”
“You are very kind,” replied the young man. “But she always says she is most comfortable, and all the principals are very kind to her. Of course, it was hard for her at first when she commenced to earn her own living. The hours, the confinement, and the rigorous rules were irksome to a girl of her character, always been used as she had to freedom and a country life.”
“Yes,” replied the old man rather thoughtfully. “I suppose so. But if she’s getting on well, I am quite satisfied. Should she have any complaint to make, don’t fail to let me know.”
Rolfe thanked him. The old fellow, notwithstanding his eccentricities, was always a generous master.
There was a pause, during which the millionaire walked to the window, peered out to see if the shabby watcher had returned, and then came back again to his table.
“Rolfe,” he commenced, as he seated himself, with surprising calmness, “I have spoken more openly to you this afternoon than I have spoken to anyone for many years. First, you must remain in London. Just ring them up in the City, and tell them to send Sheldon here, and say that he must leave for Belgrade to-night. I will see him at seven o’clock.”
The secretary took up the transmitter of the private telephone line to the offices of Statham Brothers in Old Broad Street, and in a few moments was delivering the principal’s message to the manager.
“Sheldon will be here at seven for instructions,” he said, as he replaced the transmitter.
“Then sit down, Rolfe—and listen,” the old man commanded, indicating a chair at the side of the table.
The younger man obeyed, and the great financier commenced.
“You have promised your help, and also complete secrecy, have you not?”
“I shall say nothing,” answered the other, at the same time eager to hear some closed page in the old man’s history. “Rely upon my discretion.”
He was wondering whether the grey-faced old fellow was aware of the startling events of the previous evening in Cromwell Road. His spies had told him of Maud. They perhaps had discovered that amazing truth of what had occurred in that house, now deserted and empty.
Was it possible that old Statham, being in possession of his secret, did not now fear to repose confidence in him, for he knew that if he were betrayed he could on his part make an exposure that must prove both ruinous and fatal. The crafty old financier was not the person to place himself unreservedly in the hands of any man who could possibly turn his enemy. He had an ulterior motive, without a doubt. But what it was Charles Rolfe was unable to discover.
“The mouth of that man Adams must be closed,” said the old man, in a slow, deliberate voice, “and you alone are able to accomplish it. Do this for me, and I can afford to pay well,” and he regarded the young man with a meaning look.
Was it possible that he suggested foul play. Rolfe wondered. Was he suggesting that he should lurk in some dark corner and take the life of the shabby wayfarer, who had recently returned to England after a long absence?
“It is not a question of payment,” Rolfe replied. “It is whether any effort of mine can be successful.”
“Yes; I know. I admit, Rolfe, that I was a fool. I ought to have listened to you when you first told me of his re-appearance, and I ought to have approached him and purchased his silence. I thought myself shrewd, and my cautiousness has been my undoing.”
“From the little I know, I fear that the purchase of the fellow’s silence is now out of the question. A week ago it could have been effected, but now he has cast all thought of himself to the winds, and his only object is revenge.”
“Revenge upon myself,” sighed the old man, his face growing a trifle paler as he foresaw what a terrible vengeance was within the power of that shabby stranger. “Ah! I know. He will be relentless. He has every reason to be if what has been told him had been true. A man lied—the man who is dead. Therefore the truth—the truth that would save my honour and my life—can never be told,” he added, with a desperate look upon his countenance.
“Then you have been the victim of a liar?” Rolfe said. “Yes—of a man who, jealous of my prosperity, endeavoured to ruin me by making a false statement. But his reward came quickly. I retaliated with my financial strength, and in a year he was ruined. To recoup himself he committed forgery, was arrested, and six months later died in prison—but without confessing that what he had said concerning me was a foul invention. John Adams believed it—and because of that, among other things, is my bitterest enemy.”
“But is there no way of proving the truth?” asked Rolfe, surprised at this story.
“None. The fellow put forward in support of his story proofs which he had forged. Adams naturally believed they were genuine.”
“And where are those proofs now?”
“Probably in Adams’ possession. He has no doubt hoarded them for use at the moment of his triumph.”
Rolfe did not speak for several moments.
“A week ago those proofs might, I believe, have been purchased for a round sum.”
“Could they not be purchased now? From the man’s appearance he is penniless.”
“Not so poor as you think. If what I’ve heard is true, he is in possession of funds. His shabbiness is only assumed. Have you any knowledge of a certain man named Lyle—a short man slightly deformed.”
“Lyle!” gasped his employer. “Do you mean Leonard Lyle? What do you know of him?”
“I saw him in the company of Adams. It is he who supplies the latter with money.”
“Lyle!” cried Statham, his eyes glaring in amazement. “Lyle here—in London?”
“He was here a week ago. You know him?”
“Know him—yes!” answered the old millionaire, hoarsely. “Are you certain that he has become Adams’ friend?”
“I saw them together with my own eyes. They were sitting in the Café Royal, in Regent Street. Adams was in evening-dress, and wore an opera-hat. They’d been to the Empire together.”
“Why didn’t you tell me all this before?” asked Statham, in a tone of blank despair. “I—I see now all the difficulties that have arisen. The pair have united to wreak their vengeance upon me, and I am powerless and unprotected.”
“But who is this man Leonard Lyle?” inquired the secretary.
“A man without a conscience. He was a mining engineer, and is now, I suppose—a short, white-moustached man, with a slightly humped back and a squeaky voice.”
“The same.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before? If Lyle knows Adams, the position is doubly dangerous,” he exclaimed, in abject dismay. “No,” he added, bitterly; “there can be no way out.”
“I said nothing because you had refused to believe.”
“You saw them together after you had told me of Adams’ return, or before?”
“After,” he replied. “Even though you refused to believe me, I continued to remain watchful in your interests and those of the firm. I spent several evenings in watching their movements.”
“Ah! you are loyal to me, I know, Rolfe. You shall not regret this. Hitherto I have not treated you well, but I will now try and atone for the manner in which I misjudged you. I ask your pardon.”
“For what?” inquired Rolfe, in surprise.
“For believing ill of you,” was all the old man vouchsafed.
“I tried to do my duty as your secretary,” was all he said.
“Your duty. You have done more. You have watched my enemies even though I sneered at your well-meant warning,” he said. “But if you have watched, you perhaps know where the pair are in hiding.”
“Lyle lives at the First Avenue Hotel, in Holborn. Adams lives in a small furnished flat in Addison Mansions, close to Addison Road railway station.”
“Lives there in preference to an hotel because he can go in and out shabby and down-at-heel without attracting comment—eh?”
“I suppose so. I had great difficulty in following him to his hiding-place without arousing his suspicions.”
“Does he really mean mischief?” asked the principal of Statham Brothers, bending slightly towards his secretary.
“Yes; undoubtedly he does. The pair are here with the intention of bringing ruin upon you and upon the house of Statham,” was Rolfe’s quiet reply.
“Then only you can save me, Rolfe,” cried the old man, starting up wildly.
“How? Tell me, and I am ready to act upon your instructions,” Rolfe said.
The millionaire placed his hand upon the young man’s shoulder and said:
“Repeat those words.”
Rolfe did so.
“And you will not seek to inquire the reason of a request I may make to you, even though it may sound an extraordinary and perhaps mysterious one?”
“I will act as you wish, without desiring to know your motives.”
The great financier stood looking straight into his secretary’s eyes. He was deeply in earnest, for his very life now depended upon the other’s assent. How could he put the proposal to the man before him?
“Then I take that as a promise, Rolfe,” he said at last. “You will not withdraw. You will swear to assist me at all hazards—to save me from these men.”
“I swear.”
“Good! Then to-day—nay, at this very hour—you must make what no doubt will be to you a great sacrifice.”
“What do you mean?” asked Rolfe, quickly.
“I mean,” the old man said, in a very slow distinct voice—“I mean that you must first sacrifice the honour of the woman you love—Maud Petrovitch.”
“Maud Petrovitch!” he gasped, utterly mystified.
“Yes,” he answered. “You have promised to save me—you have sworn to assist me, and the sacrifice is imperative! It is her honour—or my death!”