Chapter Seventeen.In which a Scot Becomes Anxious.That same Sunday evening, at midnight, in a cane chair in the lounge of the Central Station Hotel, in Glasgow, Charlie Rolfe sat idly smoking a cigar.Sunday in Glasgow is always a dismal day. The weather had been grey and depressing, but he had remained in the hotel, busy with correspondence. He had arrived there on Saturday upon some urgent business connected with that huge engineering concern, the Clyde and Motherwell Locomotive Works, in which old Sam Statham held a controlling interest, but as the manager was away till Monday, he had been compelled to wait until his return.The matter which he was about to decide involved the gain or loss of some 25,000 pounds, and a good deal of latitude old Statham had allowed him in his decision. Indeed, it was Rolfe who practically ran the big business. He reported periodically to Statham, and the latter was always satisfied. During the last couple of years, by his clever finance, Rolfe had made much larger profits with smaller expenditure, even though his drastic reforms had very nearly caused a strike among the four thousand hands employed.He had spent a most miserable day—a grey day, full of bitter reflection and of mourning over the might-have-beens. The morning he had idled away walking through Buchanan Street and the other main thoroughfares, where all the shops were closed and where the general aspect was inexpressibly dismal. In the afternoon he had taken a cab and gone for a long drive alone to while away the hours, and now, after dinner, he was concluding one of the most melancholy days of all his life.There were one or two other men in the lounge, keen-faced men of commercial aspect, who were discussing, over their cigars, prices, freights, and other such matters. In the corner was a small party of American men and women, stranded for the day while on their round tour of Scotland—the West Highlands, the Trossachs, Loch Lomond, Stirling Castle, the Highlands, and the rest—anxious for Monday to come, so as to be on the move again.Rolfe stretched his legs, and from his corner surveyed the scene through the smoke from his cigar. He tried to be interested in the people about him, but it was impossible. Ever and anon the words of old Sam Statham rang in his ears. If the house of Statham—which, after all, seemed to be but a house of cards—was to be saved, it must be saved at the sacrifice of Maud Petrovitch!Why? That question he had asked himself a thousand times that day. The only reply was that the charming half-foreign girl held old Statham’s secret. But how could she? As far as he knew, they had only met once, years ago, when she was but a child.And Statham, the elderly melancholy man who controlled so many interests, whose every action was noted by the City, and whose firm was believed to be as safe as the Bank of England, actually asked him to sacrifice her honour. What did he mean? Did he suggest that he was to wilfully compromise her in the eyes of the world?“Ah, if he knew—if he only knew!” murmured Rolfe to himself, his face growing pale and hard-set. “Sam Statham believes himself clever, and so he is! Yet in this game I think I am his equal.” And he smoked on in silence, his frowning countenance being an index to his troubled mind.He was reviewing the whole of the curious situation. In a few years he had risen from a harum-scarum youth to be the private secretary, confidant, and frequent adviser to one of the wealthiest men in England. Times without number, old Sam, sitting in his padded writing-chair in Park Lane, had commended him for his business acumen and foresight. Once, by a simple suggestion, daring though it was, Statham had, in a few hours, made ten thousand pounds, and, with many words of praise the dry, old fellow took out his chequebook and drew a cheque as a little present to his clever young secretary. Charlie Rolfe was however, unscrupulous, as a good many clever men of business are. In the world of commerce the dividing-line between unscrupulousness and what the City knows as smartness is invisible. So Marion’s brother was dubbed a smart man at Statham Brothers’ and in those big, old-fashioned, and rather gloomy offices he was envied as being “the governor’s favourite.”Charlie intended to get on. He saw other men make money in the City by the exercise of shrewdness and commonsense, and he meant to do the same. The business secrets of old Sam Statham were all known to him, and he had more than once been half tempted to take into partnership some financier who, armed with the information he could give, could make many a brilliant coup, forestalling even old Statham himself. Up to the present, however, he had never found anybody he could implicitly trust. Of sharks he knew dozens, clever, energetic men, he admitted, but there was not one of these who would not give away their own mother when it came to making a thousand profit. So he was waiting—waiting until he found the man who could “go in” with him and make a fortune.Again, he was reflecting upon old Sam’s appeal to him to save him.“Suppose he knew,” he murmured again. “Suppose—” and his eyes were fixed upon the painted ceiling of the lounge.A moment later he sighed impatiently, saying, “Phew! how stifling it is here!” and, rising, took up his hat and went down the stairs and out into the broad street to cool his fevered brain. He was haunted by a recollection—the tragic recollection of that night when the Doctor and his daughter had so mysteriously disappeared.“I wonder,” he said aloud, at last, “I wonder if Max ever dreams the extraordinary truth? Yet how can he?—what impressions can he have? He must be puzzled—terribly puzzled, but he can have no clue to what has actually happened!” and then he was again silent, still walking mechanically along the dark half-deserted business street. “But suppose the truth was really known!—suppose it were discovered? What then? Ah!” he gasped, staring straight before him, “what then?”For a full hour he wandered the half-deserted streets of central Glasgow, till he found himself down by the Clyde bank, and then re-traced his steps to the hotel, hardly knowing whither he went, so full was he of the terror which daily, nay, hourly, obsessed him. Whether Max Barclay had actually discovered him or not meant to him his whole future—nay his very life.“I wonder if I could possibly get at the truth through Marion?” he thought to himself. “If he really suspects me he might possibly question her with a view of discovering my actual movements on that night. Would it be safe to approach her? Or would it be safer to boldly face Max, and if he makes any remark, to deny it?”Usually he was no coward. He believed in facing the music when there was any to face. One of the greatest misfortunes of honest folks is that they are cowards.As he walked on he still muttered to himself—“Hasn’t Boileau said that all men are fools, and, spite of all their pains, they differ from each other only more or less, I’m a fool—a silly, cowardly ass, scenting danger where there is none. What could Max prove after all? No! When I return to London I’ll go and face him. The reason I didn’t go to Servia is proved by Statham himself. Of excuses I’m never at a loss. It’s an awkward position, I admit, but I must wriggle out of it, as I’ve wriggled before. Statham’s peril seems to me even greater than my own, and, moreover, he asks me to do something that is impossible. He doesn’t know—he never dreams the truth; and, what’s more, he must never know. Otherwise, I—I must—”And instinctively his hand passed over his hip-pocket, where reposed the handy plated revolver which he always carried.Presently he found himself again in front of the Central Station Hotel, and, entering, spent an hour full of anxious reflection prior to turning in. If any had seen him in the silence of that hotel room they would have at once declared him to be a man with a secret, as indeed he was.Next morning he rose pale and haggard, surprised at himself when he looked at the mirror; but when, at eleven o’clock, he took his seat in the directors’ office at the neat Clyde and Motherwell Locomotive Works his face had undergone an entire change. He was the calm, keen business man who, as secretary and agent of the great Samuel Statham, had power to deal with the huge financial interests involved.The firm had a large contract for building express locomotives for the Italian railways, lately taken over by the State, and the first business was to interview the manager and sub-manager, together with the two engineers sent from Italy, regarding some details of extra cost of construction.The work of the Clyde and Motherwell Company was always excellent. They turned out locomotives which could well bear comparison with any of the North-Western, Great Northern, or Nord of France, both as to finish, power, speed, and smoothness of running. Indeed, to railways in every part of the world, from Narvik, within the Arctic circle, to New Zealand, Clyde and Motherwell engines were running with satisfaction, thanks to the splendid designs of the chief engineer, Duncan Macgregor, the white-bearded old Scot, who at that moment was seated with Statham’s representative.The conference between the engineers of the Italianferroviaand the managers was over, and old Macgregor, who had been engineer for years to Cowan and Drummond, who owned the works before Statham had extended them and turned them into the huge Clyde and Motherwell works, still remained.He was a broad-speaking Highlander, a native of Killin, on Loch Tay, whose services had long ago been coveted by the London and North-Western Railway Company, on account of his constant improvements in express engines, but who always refused, even though offered a larger salary to go across the border and forsake the firm to whom, forty years ago, he had been apprenticed by his father, a small farmer.As a Scotsman, he believed in Glasgow. It was, in his opinion, the only place where could be built locomotives that would stand the wear and tear of a foreign or colonial line. An engine that was cleaned and looked after like a watch, as they were on the English or Scotch main lines, was easily turned out, he was fond of saying; but when it became a question of hauling power, combined with speed and strength to withstand hard wear and neglect, it was a very different matter.Managers and sub-managers, secretaries and accountants there might be, gentlemen who wore black coats and went out to dine in evening clothes, but the actual man at the head of affairs at those great works was Duncan Macgregor—the short, thick-set man, in a shabby suit of grey tweed, who sat there closeted with Rolfe.“You wrote to London asking to see me, Macgregor,” exclaimed the young man. “We’re always pleased to hear any suggestions you’ve got to make, I assure you,” said Charlie, pleasantly. “Have a cigarette?” and he pushed the big box over to the man who sat on the other side of the table.“Thank ye, no, Mr Rolfe, sir. I’m better wanting it,” replied Macgregor, in his broad tongue. And then, with a preliminary cough, he said “I—I want very badly to speak with Mr Statham.”“Whatever you say to me, Macgregor, I will tell him.”“I want to speak to him ma’sel’.”“I’m afraid that’s impossible. He sees nobody—except once a week in the city, and then only for two hours.”“’E would’na see me—eh?” asked the man, whose designs had brought the firm to the forefront in the trade.“I fear it would be impossible. You would go to London for nothing. I’m his private secretary, you know; and anything that you tell me I shall be pleased to convey to him.”“But, mon, I want to see ’im ma’sel’!”“That can’t be managed,” declared Rolfe. “This business is left to Mr Smale and myself. Mr Statham controls the financial position, but details are left to me, in conjunction with Smale and Hamilton. Is it concerning the development of the business that you wish to see Mr Statham?”“No, it ain’t. It concerns Mr Statham himself, privately.”Rolfe pricked up his ears.“Then it’s a matter which you do not wish to discuss with me?” he said. “Remember that Mr Statham has no business secrets from me. All his private correspondence passes through my hands.”“I know all that, Mr Rolfe,” Macgregor answered, with impatience; “but I must, an’ I will, see Mr Statham! I’m coming to London to-morrow to see him.”“My dear sir,” laughed Rolfe, “it’s utterly useless! Why, Mr Statham has peers of the realm calling to see him, and he sends out word that he’s not at home.”“Eh! ’E’s a big mon, I ken; but when ’e knows ma’ bizniss e’ll verra soon see me,” replied the bearded old fellow, in confidence.“But is your business of such a very private character?” asked Rolfe.“Aye, it is.”“About the projected strike—eh? Well, I can tell you at once what his attitude is towards the men, without you going up to London. He told me a few days ago to say that if there was any trouble, he’d close down the works entirely for six months, or a year, if need be. He won’t stand any nonsense.”“An’ starve the poor bairns—eh?” mentioned the old engineer, who had grown white in the service of the firm. “Ay, when it was Cowan and Drummond they wouldna’ ha’ done that! I remember the strike in ’82, an’ how they conciliated the men. But it was na’ aboot the strike at all I was wanting to see Mr Statham. It was aboot himself.”“Himself! What does he concern you? You’ve never met him. He’s never been in Glasgow in his life.”“Whether I’ve met ’im or no is my own affair, Mr Rolfe,” replied the old fellow, sticking his hairy fist into his jacket pocket. “I want to see ’im now, an’ at once. I shall go to the London office an’ wait till ’e comes.”“And when he comes he’ll be far too busy to see you,” the secretary declared. “So, my dear man, don’t spend money unnecessarily in going up to London, I beg of you.”By the old man’s attitude Rolfe scented that something was amiss, and set himself to discover what it was and report to his master.“Is there any real dissatisfaction in the works?” he asked Macgregor, after a brief pause.“There was a wee bittie, but it’s a’ passed away.”“Then it is not concerning the works that you want to see Mr Statham?”“Nay, mon, not at all.”“Nor about any new patent?”“Nay.”Rolfe was filled with wonder. The attitude of the old fellow was sphinx-like and yet he seemed confident that the millionaire would see him when he applied for an interview. For a full half-hour they chatted, but canny Macgregor told his questioner nothing—nothing more than that he was about to go to London to have a talk with the great financier upon some important matter which closely concerned him.Therefore by the West Coast evening express, Rolfe left Glasgow for the south, full of wonder as to what the white-bearded old fellow meant by his covert insinuations and his proud confidence in the millionaire’s good offices. There was something there which merited investigation—of that he was convinced.
That same Sunday evening, at midnight, in a cane chair in the lounge of the Central Station Hotel, in Glasgow, Charlie Rolfe sat idly smoking a cigar.
Sunday in Glasgow is always a dismal day. The weather had been grey and depressing, but he had remained in the hotel, busy with correspondence. He had arrived there on Saturday upon some urgent business connected with that huge engineering concern, the Clyde and Motherwell Locomotive Works, in which old Sam Statham held a controlling interest, but as the manager was away till Monday, he had been compelled to wait until his return.
The matter which he was about to decide involved the gain or loss of some 25,000 pounds, and a good deal of latitude old Statham had allowed him in his decision. Indeed, it was Rolfe who practically ran the big business. He reported periodically to Statham, and the latter was always satisfied. During the last couple of years, by his clever finance, Rolfe had made much larger profits with smaller expenditure, even though his drastic reforms had very nearly caused a strike among the four thousand hands employed.
He had spent a most miserable day—a grey day, full of bitter reflection and of mourning over the might-have-beens. The morning he had idled away walking through Buchanan Street and the other main thoroughfares, where all the shops were closed and where the general aspect was inexpressibly dismal. In the afternoon he had taken a cab and gone for a long drive alone to while away the hours, and now, after dinner, he was concluding one of the most melancholy days of all his life.
There were one or two other men in the lounge, keen-faced men of commercial aspect, who were discussing, over their cigars, prices, freights, and other such matters. In the corner was a small party of American men and women, stranded for the day while on their round tour of Scotland—the West Highlands, the Trossachs, Loch Lomond, Stirling Castle, the Highlands, and the rest—anxious for Monday to come, so as to be on the move again.
Rolfe stretched his legs, and from his corner surveyed the scene through the smoke from his cigar. He tried to be interested in the people about him, but it was impossible. Ever and anon the words of old Sam Statham rang in his ears. If the house of Statham—which, after all, seemed to be but a house of cards—was to be saved, it must be saved at the sacrifice of Maud Petrovitch!
Why? That question he had asked himself a thousand times that day. The only reply was that the charming half-foreign girl held old Statham’s secret. But how could she? As far as he knew, they had only met once, years ago, when she was but a child.
And Statham, the elderly melancholy man who controlled so many interests, whose every action was noted by the City, and whose firm was believed to be as safe as the Bank of England, actually asked him to sacrifice her honour. What did he mean? Did he suggest that he was to wilfully compromise her in the eyes of the world?
“Ah, if he knew—if he only knew!” murmured Rolfe to himself, his face growing pale and hard-set. “Sam Statham believes himself clever, and so he is! Yet in this game I think I am his equal.” And he smoked on in silence, his frowning countenance being an index to his troubled mind.
He was reviewing the whole of the curious situation. In a few years he had risen from a harum-scarum youth to be the private secretary, confidant, and frequent adviser to one of the wealthiest men in England. Times without number, old Sam, sitting in his padded writing-chair in Park Lane, had commended him for his business acumen and foresight. Once, by a simple suggestion, daring though it was, Statham had, in a few hours, made ten thousand pounds, and, with many words of praise the dry, old fellow took out his chequebook and drew a cheque as a little present to his clever young secretary. Charlie Rolfe was however, unscrupulous, as a good many clever men of business are. In the world of commerce the dividing-line between unscrupulousness and what the City knows as smartness is invisible. So Marion’s brother was dubbed a smart man at Statham Brothers’ and in those big, old-fashioned, and rather gloomy offices he was envied as being “the governor’s favourite.”
Charlie intended to get on. He saw other men make money in the City by the exercise of shrewdness and commonsense, and he meant to do the same. The business secrets of old Sam Statham were all known to him, and he had more than once been half tempted to take into partnership some financier who, armed with the information he could give, could make many a brilliant coup, forestalling even old Statham himself. Up to the present, however, he had never found anybody he could implicitly trust. Of sharks he knew dozens, clever, energetic men, he admitted, but there was not one of these who would not give away their own mother when it came to making a thousand profit. So he was waiting—waiting until he found the man who could “go in” with him and make a fortune.
Again, he was reflecting upon old Sam’s appeal to him to save him.
“Suppose he knew,” he murmured again. “Suppose—” and his eyes were fixed upon the painted ceiling of the lounge.
A moment later he sighed impatiently, saying, “Phew! how stifling it is here!” and, rising, took up his hat and went down the stairs and out into the broad street to cool his fevered brain. He was haunted by a recollection—the tragic recollection of that night when the Doctor and his daughter had so mysteriously disappeared.
“I wonder,” he said aloud, at last, “I wonder if Max ever dreams the extraordinary truth? Yet how can he?—what impressions can he have? He must be puzzled—terribly puzzled, but he can have no clue to what has actually happened!” and then he was again silent, still walking mechanically along the dark half-deserted business street. “But suppose the truth was really known!—suppose it were discovered? What then? Ah!” he gasped, staring straight before him, “what then?”
For a full hour he wandered the half-deserted streets of central Glasgow, till he found himself down by the Clyde bank, and then re-traced his steps to the hotel, hardly knowing whither he went, so full was he of the terror which daily, nay, hourly, obsessed him. Whether Max Barclay had actually discovered him or not meant to him his whole future—nay his very life.
“I wonder if I could possibly get at the truth through Marion?” he thought to himself. “If he really suspects me he might possibly question her with a view of discovering my actual movements on that night. Would it be safe to approach her? Or would it be safer to boldly face Max, and if he makes any remark, to deny it?”
Usually he was no coward. He believed in facing the music when there was any to face. One of the greatest misfortunes of honest folks is that they are cowards.
As he walked on he still muttered to himself—
“Hasn’t Boileau said that all men are fools, and, spite of all their pains, they differ from each other only more or less, I’m a fool—a silly, cowardly ass, scenting danger where there is none. What could Max prove after all? No! When I return to London I’ll go and face him. The reason I didn’t go to Servia is proved by Statham himself. Of excuses I’m never at a loss. It’s an awkward position, I admit, but I must wriggle out of it, as I’ve wriggled before. Statham’s peril seems to me even greater than my own, and, moreover, he asks me to do something that is impossible. He doesn’t know—he never dreams the truth; and, what’s more, he must never know. Otherwise, I—I must—”
And instinctively his hand passed over his hip-pocket, where reposed the handy plated revolver which he always carried.
Presently he found himself again in front of the Central Station Hotel, and, entering, spent an hour full of anxious reflection prior to turning in. If any had seen him in the silence of that hotel room they would have at once declared him to be a man with a secret, as indeed he was.
Next morning he rose pale and haggard, surprised at himself when he looked at the mirror; but when, at eleven o’clock, he took his seat in the directors’ office at the neat Clyde and Motherwell Locomotive Works his face had undergone an entire change. He was the calm, keen business man who, as secretary and agent of the great Samuel Statham, had power to deal with the huge financial interests involved.
The firm had a large contract for building express locomotives for the Italian railways, lately taken over by the State, and the first business was to interview the manager and sub-manager, together with the two engineers sent from Italy, regarding some details of extra cost of construction.
The work of the Clyde and Motherwell Company was always excellent. They turned out locomotives which could well bear comparison with any of the North-Western, Great Northern, or Nord of France, both as to finish, power, speed, and smoothness of running. Indeed, to railways in every part of the world, from Narvik, within the Arctic circle, to New Zealand, Clyde and Motherwell engines were running with satisfaction, thanks to the splendid designs of the chief engineer, Duncan Macgregor, the white-bearded old Scot, who at that moment was seated with Statham’s representative.
The conference between the engineers of the Italianferroviaand the managers was over, and old Macgregor, who had been engineer for years to Cowan and Drummond, who owned the works before Statham had extended them and turned them into the huge Clyde and Motherwell works, still remained.
He was a broad-speaking Highlander, a native of Killin, on Loch Tay, whose services had long ago been coveted by the London and North-Western Railway Company, on account of his constant improvements in express engines, but who always refused, even though offered a larger salary to go across the border and forsake the firm to whom, forty years ago, he had been apprenticed by his father, a small farmer.
As a Scotsman, he believed in Glasgow. It was, in his opinion, the only place where could be built locomotives that would stand the wear and tear of a foreign or colonial line. An engine that was cleaned and looked after like a watch, as they were on the English or Scotch main lines, was easily turned out, he was fond of saying; but when it became a question of hauling power, combined with speed and strength to withstand hard wear and neglect, it was a very different matter.
Managers and sub-managers, secretaries and accountants there might be, gentlemen who wore black coats and went out to dine in evening clothes, but the actual man at the head of affairs at those great works was Duncan Macgregor—the short, thick-set man, in a shabby suit of grey tweed, who sat there closeted with Rolfe.
“You wrote to London asking to see me, Macgregor,” exclaimed the young man. “We’re always pleased to hear any suggestions you’ve got to make, I assure you,” said Charlie, pleasantly. “Have a cigarette?” and he pushed the big box over to the man who sat on the other side of the table.
“Thank ye, no, Mr Rolfe, sir. I’m better wanting it,” replied Macgregor, in his broad tongue. And then, with a preliminary cough, he said “I—I want very badly to speak with Mr Statham.”
“Whatever you say to me, Macgregor, I will tell him.”
“I want to speak to him ma’sel’.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible. He sees nobody—except once a week in the city, and then only for two hours.”
“’E would’na see me—eh?” asked the man, whose designs had brought the firm to the forefront in the trade.
“I fear it would be impossible. You would go to London for nothing. I’m his private secretary, you know; and anything that you tell me I shall be pleased to convey to him.”
“But, mon, I want to see ’im ma’sel’!”
“That can’t be managed,” declared Rolfe. “This business is left to Mr Smale and myself. Mr Statham controls the financial position, but details are left to me, in conjunction with Smale and Hamilton. Is it concerning the development of the business that you wish to see Mr Statham?”
“No, it ain’t. It concerns Mr Statham himself, privately.”
Rolfe pricked up his ears.
“Then it’s a matter which you do not wish to discuss with me?” he said. “Remember that Mr Statham has no business secrets from me. All his private correspondence passes through my hands.”
“I know all that, Mr Rolfe,” Macgregor answered, with impatience; “but I must, an’ I will, see Mr Statham! I’m coming to London to-morrow to see him.”
“My dear sir,” laughed Rolfe, “it’s utterly useless! Why, Mr Statham has peers of the realm calling to see him, and he sends out word that he’s not at home.”
“Eh! ’E’s a big mon, I ken; but when ’e knows ma’ bizniss e’ll verra soon see me,” replied the bearded old fellow, in confidence.
“But is your business of such a very private character?” asked Rolfe.
“Aye, it is.”
“About the projected strike—eh? Well, I can tell you at once what his attitude is towards the men, without you going up to London. He told me a few days ago to say that if there was any trouble, he’d close down the works entirely for six months, or a year, if need be. He won’t stand any nonsense.”
“An’ starve the poor bairns—eh?” mentioned the old engineer, who had grown white in the service of the firm. “Ay, when it was Cowan and Drummond they wouldna’ ha’ done that! I remember the strike in ’82, an’ how they conciliated the men. But it was na’ aboot the strike at all I was wanting to see Mr Statham. It was aboot himself.”
“Himself! What does he concern you? You’ve never met him. He’s never been in Glasgow in his life.”
“Whether I’ve met ’im or no is my own affair, Mr Rolfe,” replied the old fellow, sticking his hairy fist into his jacket pocket. “I want to see ’im now, an’ at once. I shall go to the London office an’ wait till ’e comes.”
“And when he comes he’ll be far too busy to see you,” the secretary declared. “So, my dear man, don’t spend money unnecessarily in going up to London, I beg of you.”
By the old man’s attitude Rolfe scented that something was amiss, and set himself to discover what it was and report to his master.
“Is there any real dissatisfaction in the works?” he asked Macgregor, after a brief pause.
“There was a wee bittie, but it’s a’ passed away.”
“Then it is not concerning the works that you want to see Mr Statham?”
“Nay, mon, not at all.”
“Nor about any new patent?”
“Nay.”
Rolfe was filled with wonder. The attitude of the old fellow was sphinx-like and yet he seemed confident that the millionaire would see him when he applied for an interview. For a full half-hour they chatted, but canny Macgregor told his questioner nothing—nothing more than that he was about to go to London to have a talk with the great financier upon some important matter which closely concerned him.
Therefore by the West Coast evening express, Rolfe left Glasgow for the south, full of wonder as to what the white-bearded old fellow meant by his covert insinuations and his proud confidence in the millionaire’s good offices. There was something there which merited investigation—of that he was convinced.
Chapter Eighteen.The Outsider.On the left-hand side of Old Broad Street, City, passing from the Royal Exchange to Liverpool Street Station, stands a dark and dingy building, with a row of four windows looking upon the street. On a dull day, when the green-shaded lamps are lit within, the passer-by catches glimpses of rows of clerks, seated at desks poring over ledgers. At the counter is a continual coming and going of clerks and messengers, and notes and gold are received in and paid out constantly until the clock strikes four. Then the big, old doors are closed, and upon them is seen a brass plate, with the lettering almost worn off by continual polishing, bearing the words “Statham Brothers.”Beyond the counter, through a small wicket, is the manager’s room—large, but gloomy, screened from the public view, and lit summer and winter by artificial light. In a corner is a safe for books, and at either end big writing-tables.In that sombre room “deals” representing thousands upon thousands were often made, and through its door, alas! many a man who, finding himself pressed, had gone to the firm for financial aid and been refused, had walked out a bankrupt and ruined.Beyond the manager’s room was a narrow, dark passage, at the end of which was a door marked “Private,” and within that private room, punctually at eleven o’clock, three mornings after Rolfe’s conversation with Macgregor, old Sam Statham took his seat in the shabby writing-chair, from which the stuffing protruded.About the great financier’s private room there was nothing palatial. It was so dark that artificial light had to be used always. The desk was an old-fashioned mahogany one of the style of half a century ago, a threadbare carpet, two or three old horsehair chairs, and upon the green-painted wall a big date-calendar such as bankers usually use, while beneath it was a card, printed with old Sam’s motto:—“TIME FLIES; DEATH URGES.”That same motto was over every clerk’s desk, and, because of it, some wag had dubbed the great financier, “Death-head Statham.”As he sat beneath the lamp at his desk, old Sam’s appearance was almost as presentable as that of his clerks. Levi always smartened his master up on the day he went into the City, compelling him to wear a frock coat, a light waistcoat, a decent pair of trousers, and a proper cravat, instead of the bit of greasy black ribbon which he habitually wore.“And how much have we gained over the Pekin business, Ben?” Mr Samuel was asking of the man who, though slightly younger, was an almost exact replica of himself, slightly thinner and taller. Benjamin Statham, Sam’s brother, was the working manager of the concern, and one of the smartest financiers in the whole City of London. He was standing with his back to the fireplace, with his hands thrust deep in his trousers-pockets.“Ah!” he laughed. “When I first suggested it you wouldn’t touch it. Didn’t owe for Chinese business, and all that! You’d actually see the French people go and take the plums right from beneath our noses—and—”“Enough, Ben. I own I was a little short-sighted in that matter. Perhaps the details you sent me were not quite clear. At any rate,” he said, “I was mistaken, for you say we’ve made a profit. How much?”“Twelve thousand; and not a cent of hazardous risk.”“How did we first hear of the business?”“Through the secret channel in Paris.”“The woman?”“Yes.”“Better send her something.”“How much? She’s rather hard-up, I hear.”“Women like her are always hard-up,” growled old Sam. “Leave it to me. I’ll get Rolfe to send her something to-morrow.”“I promised her a couple of hundred. You mustn’t send her less, or we shall queer business for the future.”“I shall send her five hundred,” responded the head of the firm. “She’s a very useful woman—and pretty, too, Ben—by Jove! she is! She called on me in her automobile at the Elysée Palace about eighteen months ago, and I was much struck by her. She knows almost everybody in Paris, and can get any information she wants from her numerous male admirers.”“She’s well paid—gets a thousand a year from us,” Ben remarked.“And we sometimes make twenty out of the secret information she obtains for us,” laughed old Sam. “Remember the Morocco business, and how she gave us the complete French programme which she got from young Delorme, at the Quai d’Orsay. We were as much in the dark as the newspapers till then, and if we hadn’t have got at the French intentions, we should have made a terribly heavy loss. As it was, we left it to others—who went under.”“She got an extra five hundred as a present for that,” Ben pointed out.“And it was worth it.”“Delorme doesn’t know who gave the game away to us. If he did, it would be the worse for Her Daintiness.”“No doubt it would. But she’s a fly bird, and as only you and I and Rolfe know the truth, she’s pretty confident that she’ll never be given away.”“She’s in town—at Claridge’s—just now, so you need not write her to Paris. She asked me to call the night before last, and I went,” said Ben. “She wanted to get further instructions regarding a matter about which I wrote her. I dined with her.”Sam grunted as he turned slightly in his chair.“Rather undesirable company—eh—Ben?” he exclaimed, with some surprise. “Suppose you were seen by anyone who knows her? And recollect that all Paris knows her. It is scarcely compatible with our standing in the City for you to be seen in her company.”“My dear Sam, I took very good care not to be seen in her company. I’m not quite a fool. I accepted her invitation with a distinct purpose. I wanted to question her about one of her friends—a man who may in future prove of considerable use to us. He’s, as usual, in love with her, and she can twist him inside out.”“Ah! any man’s a fool who allows himself to fall under the fascination of a woman’s smiles,” remarked the dry-as-dust old millionaire. “We’ve been wise, Ben, to remain bachelors. It’s the unmarried who taste the good things of this world.”Benjamin sighed, but said nothing. He, like Sam himself, had had his love-romance years ago, and it still lingered within him, lingered as it does within the heart of every man who has loved a woman that has turned out false and broken her pledge of affection. Ben Statham’s was a sorry story. Before his eyes, even now that thirty years had gone, there often arose the vision of a sweet, pale-faced, slim figure in white muslin, girdled with blue; of green meadows, where the cattle stood knee-deep in the rich grass, and of a cool Scotch glen where the trees overhung the rippling burn and where the trout darted in the pools.But it had all ended, as many another love-romance has, alas! ended, in the woman forsaking the man who loved her, and in marrying another for his money.Three years later her husband—the man whom she had wedded because of his position—was in the bankruptcy court, and six months afterwards he had followed her to her grave. But the sweet recollection of her still remained with Ben, and beneath that hard and wizened countenance beat a heart foil of tender memories of a day long since dead.His brother Samuel’s romance was even more tragic. Nobody knew the story save himself, and it had never passed his lips. The society gossips who so often wrote their tittle-tattle about him never dreamed the strange story of the life of the great financier, nor the extraordinary romance that underlay his marvellous success. What a sensation would be produced if they ever learnt the truth! In those days long ago both of them had been poor, and had suffered in consequence. Now that they were both wealthy, the bitterness of the past still remained with them.They were discussing another matter, concerning a project for an electric tramway in a Spanish city, the concession for which had been brought to them. They both agreed that the thing would not pay, therefore it was dismissed.During their discussion Rolfe entered, and, taking his seat at the small table near his master, busied himself with some letters.Suddenly Benjamin Statham exclaimed—“Oh! by the way, there’s a queer-looking Scot from the Clyde and Motherwell works who’s been hanging about for a couple of days to see you, Sam. Says he must see you at all coats.”“I don’t want to see anybody from Glasgow,” snapped Statham. “Tell him I’m not here, whoever he is.”“He’s the old engineer, Macgregor,” Rolfe said. “He mentioned to me when I was in Glasgow the other day that he particularly wished to see you, and that he was coming up on purpose. I told him it was a wild-goose chase.”“Engineer? What does he do? Mind the engine—one of the men who threaten to go on strike, I suppose,” remarked old Sam.“No,” laughed Rolfe. “He’s a little more than engineer. It is he who has designed nearly every locomotive we’ve turned out.”“Oh! valuable man—eh? Then raise his salary, Rolfe, and send him back to Glasgow to make a few more engines.”“He’s waiting outside at the counter now, and won’t go away,” exclaimed the secretary.“Then go to him and say he shall have fifty pounds more a year. I can’t be bothered to see the fellow.”Rolfe rose and went to the outer office, where Macgregor stood patiently. He had waited there for best part of two days and, with a Scot’s tenacity, refused to be put off by any of the clerks. He wanted to see Mr Samuel Statham, “an’ I mean to see ’im, mon,” he told everybody, his grey beard bristling fiercely as he spoke.He was evidently a man with a grievance. Such men came to Old Broad Street sometimes, and on rare occasions Mr Benjamin saw them. There were hard cases of men ignorant of the ways of business as the City to-day knows it, having been deliberately swindled out of their rights by sharks, concessions filched from their rightful owners, and patents artfully stolen and registered. But old Duncan Macgregor, with his white beard, was of a different type—the type of honest, hard-working plodder, out of whose brains the great Clyde and Motherwell works were practically coining money daily.As Rolfe advanced to him he said:—“I’m sorry, Macgregor, that Mr Statham is quite unable to see you to-day. He’s engaged three deep. I’ve told him you wished to see him, and he says that he much appreciates the great services you’ve rendered to the firm, and that you are to receive a rise of salary of fifty pounds a year, beginning the first of last January.”“What!” cried the old man. “What—’e offers me another fifty pounds! ’E’s guid an’ generous; but I have na’ come here for that. I’ve come to London to see him—ye hear!—to see him—d’ye hear, Mr Rolfe, an’ I must.”“But, my dear sir, you can’t!”“Tell him I don’t want his fifty pound,” cried the old man so derisively that the clerks looked up from their ledgers. “I must speak to him, an’ him alone.”“Impossible,” exclaimed Rolfe, impatiently.“Why impossible?” asked the old fellow. “When Mr Statham knows the business I’ve come upon he won’t thank ye for keepin’ us apart. D’ye ken that, mon?” and his beard wagged as he spoke.“I know nothing, Macgregor, because you’ve told me nothing,” was the other’s reply.“Well, I tell ye I mean to see him, an’ that’s sufficient for Duncan Macgregor.”“Mr Duncan Macgregor will, if he continues to create a scene here, find himself discharged from the employ of the Clyde and Motherwell works,” remarked Rolfe, drily.“An’ Duncan Macgregor can go to the North-Western to-morrow at a bigger rise than the fifty pounds a year. D’ye ken that?” replied the man from Glasgow.“Then you refuse to accept Mr Statham’s offer to you?”“Of course, mon. Ye don’t think that I come to London a cringin’ for more pay, do ye? If I wanted it I could ha’ got it from another company years ago,” replied the independent old fellow. “No, I must see Mr Statham. Go back an’ tell him so. I’m here to see him on a very important matter,” and, dropping his voice, he added, “a matter which closely concerns himself.”“Then tell me its nature.”“It’s private, sir. Until Mr Statham gives me leave to tell you, I can’t.”“But he wants to know the nature of the business,” answered the secretary, again struck by the old fellow’s pertinacity. It was not every man who would decline a rise of a pound a week in his salary. Rolfe was puzzled, but he knew old Sam well enough to be aware that even if a duke called he would refuse to see him. He only came to the City once a week to discuss matters with his brother Ben, and saw no outsider.“I can’t tell ye why I want to see Mr Statham; that’s only his business and mine,” replied the bearded Scot. The clerks were now smiling at Rolfe’s vain attempts to get rid of him.“Will you write it? Here—write on this slip of paper,” the secretary suggested.The old fellow hesitated.“Yes—if you’ll let me seal it up in an envelope.”Rolfe at once assented, and, with considerable care, the old fellow wrote some pencilled lines, folded the paper, sealed it in the envelope, and wrote the superscription.A few moments later, when Rolfe handed it to the old millionaire, who was still at his table chatting with his brother, he asked, in the snappish way habitual to him:—“Who’s this from—eh? Why am I bothered?”“From the man Macgregor, from Glasgow. He won’t go away.”“Then discharge the brute,” he replied, and with the note in his hand he finished a remark he had addressed to his brother.At last, mechanically, he opened it, and his eyes fell upon the scribbled words.His jaw dropped. The colour left his cheeks, and, sitting back, he glared straight at Rolfe as though he had seen an apparition.For a few moments he seemed too confused to speak. Then, when he recovered himself, he said, half apologetically:—“Ben, I must see this man alone—a—a private matter. I—I had no idea—I—”“Of course, Sam,” exclaimed his brother, leaving the room. “Let me know when he’s gone.”“Rolfe, show him in,” the millionaire ordered. The instant his secretary had gone he sprang to his feet, examined his face in the small mirror over the mantelshelf for a moment, and then stood bracing himself up for the interview.
On the left-hand side of Old Broad Street, City, passing from the Royal Exchange to Liverpool Street Station, stands a dark and dingy building, with a row of four windows looking upon the street. On a dull day, when the green-shaded lamps are lit within, the passer-by catches glimpses of rows of clerks, seated at desks poring over ledgers. At the counter is a continual coming and going of clerks and messengers, and notes and gold are received in and paid out constantly until the clock strikes four. Then the big, old doors are closed, and upon them is seen a brass plate, with the lettering almost worn off by continual polishing, bearing the words “Statham Brothers.”
Beyond the counter, through a small wicket, is the manager’s room—large, but gloomy, screened from the public view, and lit summer and winter by artificial light. In a corner is a safe for books, and at either end big writing-tables.
In that sombre room “deals” representing thousands upon thousands were often made, and through its door, alas! many a man who, finding himself pressed, had gone to the firm for financial aid and been refused, had walked out a bankrupt and ruined.
Beyond the manager’s room was a narrow, dark passage, at the end of which was a door marked “Private,” and within that private room, punctually at eleven o’clock, three mornings after Rolfe’s conversation with Macgregor, old Sam Statham took his seat in the shabby writing-chair, from which the stuffing protruded.
About the great financier’s private room there was nothing palatial. It was so dark that artificial light had to be used always. The desk was an old-fashioned mahogany one of the style of half a century ago, a threadbare carpet, two or three old horsehair chairs, and upon the green-painted wall a big date-calendar such as bankers usually use, while beneath it was a card, printed with old Sam’s motto:—
“TIME FLIES; DEATH URGES.”
That same motto was over every clerk’s desk, and, because of it, some wag had dubbed the great financier, “Death-head Statham.”
As he sat beneath the lamp at his desk, old Sam’s appearance was almost as presentable as that of his clerks. Levi always smartened his master up on the day he went into the City, compelling him to wear a frock coat, a light waistcoat, a decent pair of trousers, and a proper cravat, instead of the bit of greasy black ribbon which he habitually wore.
“And how much have we gained over the Pekin business, Ben?” Mr Samuel was asking of the man who, though slightly younger, was an almost exact replica of himself, slightly thinner and taller. Benjamin Statham, Sam’s brother, was the working manager of the concern, and one of the smartest financiers in the whole City of London. He was standing with his back to the fireplace, with his hands thrust deep in his trousers-pockets.
“Ah!” he laughed. “When I first suggested it you wouldn’t touch it. Didn’t owe for Chinese business, and all that! You’d actually see the French people go and take the plums right from beneath our noses—and—”
“Enough, Ben. I own I was a little short-sighted in that matter. Perhaps the details you sent me were not quite clear. At any rate,” he said, “I was mistaken, for you say we’ve made a profit. How much?”
“Twelve thousand; and not a cent of hazardous risk.”
“How did we first hear of the business?”
“Through the secret channel in Paris.”
“The woman?”
“Yes.”
“Better send her something.”
“How much? She’s rather hard-up, I hear.”
“Women like her are always hard-up,” growled old Sam. “Leave it to me. I’ll get Rolfe to send her something to-morrow.”
“I promised her a couple of hundred. You mustn’t send her less, or we shall queer business for the future.”
“I shall send her five hundred,” responded the head of the firm. “She’s a very useful woman—and pretty, too, Ben—by Jove! she is! She called on me in her automobile at the Elysée Palace about eighteen months ago, and I was much struck by her. She knows almost everybody in Paris, and can get any information she wants from her numerous male admirers.”
“She’s well paid—gets a thousand a year from us,” Ben remarked.
“And we sometimes make twenty out of the secret information she obtains for us,” laughed old Sam. “Remember the Morocco business, and how she gave us the complete French programme which she got from young Delorme, at the Quai d’Orsay. We were as much in the dark as the newspapers till then, and if we hadn’t have got at the French intentions, we should have made a terribly heavy loss. As it was, we left it to others—who went under.”
“She got an extra five hundred as a present for that,” Ben pointed out.
“And it was worth it.”
“Delorme doesn’t know who gave the game away to us. If he did, it would be the worse for Her Daintiness.”
“No doubt it would. But she’s a fly bird, and as only you and I and Rolfe know the truth, she’s pretty confident that she’ll never be given away.”
“She’s in town—at Claridge’s—just now, so you need not write her to Paris. She asked me to call the night before last, and I went,” said Ben. “She wanted to get further instructions regarding a matter about which I wrote her. I dined with her.”
Sam grunted as he turned slightly in his chair.
“Rather undesirable company—eh—Ben?” he exclaimed, with some surprise. “Suppose you were seen by anyone who knows her? And recollect that all Paris knows her. It is scarcely compatible with our standing in the City for you to be seen in her company.”
“My dear Sam, I took very good care not to be seen in her company. I’m not quite a fool. I accepted her invitation with a distinct purpose. I wanted to question her about one of her friends—a man who may in future prove of considerable use to us. He’s, as usual, in love with her, and she can twist him inside out.”
“Ah! any man’s a fool who allows himself to fall under the fascination of a woman’s smiles,” remarked the dry-as-dust old millionaire. “We’ve been wise, Ben, to remain bachelors. It’s the unmarried who taste the good things of this world.”
Benjamin sighed, but said nothing. He, like Sam himself, had had his love-romance years ago, and it still lingered within him, lingered as it does within the heart of every man who has loved a woman that has turned out false and broken her pledge of affection. Ben Statham’s was a sorry story. Before his eyes, even now that thirty years had gone, there often arose the vision of a sweet, pale-faced, slim figure in white muslin, girdled with blue; of green meadows, where the cattle stood knee-deep in the rich grass, and of a cool Scotch glen where the trees overhung the rippling burn and where the trout darted in the pools.
But it had all ended, as many another love-romance has, alas! ended, in the woman forsaking the man who loved her, and in marrying another for his money.
Three years later her husband—the man whom she had wedded because of his position—was in the bankruptcy court, and six months afterwards he had followed her to her grave. But the sweet recollection of her still remained with Ben, and beneath that hard and wizened countenance beat a heart foil of tender memories of a day long since dead.
His brother Samuel’s romance was even more tragic. Nobody knew the story save himself, and it had never passed his lips. The society gossips who so often wrote their tittle-tattle about him never dreamed the strange story of the life of the great financier, nor the extraordinary romance that underlay his marvellous success. What a sensation would be produced if they ever learnt the truth! In those days long ago both of them had been poor, and had suffered in consequence. Now that they were both wealthy, the bitterness of the past still remained with them.
They were discussing another matter, concerning a project for an electric tramway in a Spanish city, the concession for which had been brought to them. They both agreed that the thing would not pay, therefore it was dismissed.
During their discussion Rolfe entered, and, taking his seat at the small table near his master, busied himself with some letters.
Suddenly Benjamin Statham exclaimed—
“Oh! by the way, there’s a queer-looking Scot from the Clyde and Motherwell works who’s been hanging about for a couple of days to see you, Sam. Says he must see you at all coats.”
“I don’t want to see anybody from Glasgow,” snapped Statham. “Tell him I’m not here, whoever he is.”
“He’s the old engineer, Macgregor,” Rolfe said. “He mentioned to me when I was in Glasgow the other day that he particularly wished to see you, and that he was coming up on purpose. I told him it was a wild-goose chase.”
“Engineer? What does he do? Mind the engine—one of the men who threaten to go on strike, I suppose,” remarked old Sam.
“No,” laughed Rolfe. “He’s a little more than engineer. It is he who has designed nearly every locomotive we’ve turned out.”
“Oh! valuable man—eh? Then raise his salary, Rolfe, and send him back to Glasgow to make a few more engines.”
“He’s waiting outside at the counter now, and won’t go away,” exclaimed the secretary.
“Then go to him and say he shall have fifty pounds more a year. I can’t be bothered to see the fellow.”
Rolfe rose and went to the outer office, where Macgregor stood patiently. He had waited there for best part of two days and, with a Scot’s tenacity, refused to be put off by any of the clerks. He wanted to see Mr Samuel Statham, “an’ I mean to see ’im, mon,” he told everybody, his grey beard bristling fiercely as he spoke.
He was evidently a man with a grievance. Such men came to Old Broad Street sometimes, and on rare occasions Mr Benjamin saw them. There were hard cases of men ignorant of the ways of business as the City to-day knows it, having been deliberately swindled out of their rights by sharks, concessions filched from their rightful owners, and patents artfully stolen and registered. But old Duncan Macgregor, with his white beard, was of a different type—the type of honest, hard-working plodder, out of whose brains the great Clyde and Motherwell works were practically coining money daily.
As Rolfe advanced to him he said:—
“I’m sorry, Macgregor, that Mr Statham is quite unable to see you to-day. He’s engaged three deep. I’ve told him you wished to see him, and he says that he much appreciates the great services you’ve rendered to the firm, and that you are to receive a rise of salary of fifty pounds a year, beginning the first of last January.”
“What!” cried the old man. “What—’e offers me another fifty pounds! ’E’s guid an’ generous; but I have na’ come here for that. I’ve come to London to see him—ye hear!—to see him—d’ye hear, Mr Rolfe, an’ I must.”
“But, my dear sir, you can’t!”
“Tell him I don’t want his fifty pound,” cried the old man so derisively that the clerks looked up from their ledgers. “I must speak to him, an’ him alone.”
“Impossible,” exclaimed Rolfe, impatiently.
“Why impossible?” asked the old fellow. “When Mr Statham knows the business I’ve come upon he won’t thank ye for keepin’ us apart. D’ye ken that, mon?” and his beard wagged as he spoke.
“I know nothing, Macgregor, because you’ve told me nothing,” was the other’s reply.
“Well, I tell ye I mean to see him, an’ that’s sufficient for Duncan Macgregor.”
“Mr Duncan Macgregor will, if he continues to create a scene here, find himself discharged from the employ of the Clyde and Motherwell works,” remarked Rolfe, drily.
“An’ Duncan Macgregor can go to the North-Western to-morrow at a bigger rise than the fifty pounds a year. D’ye ken that?” replied the man from Glasgow.
“Then you refuse to accept Mr Statham’s offer to you?”
“Of course, mon. Ye don’t think that I come to London a cringin’ for more pay, do ye? If I wanted it I could ha’ got it from another company years ago,” replied the independent old fellow. “No, I must see Mr Statham. Go back an’ tell him so. I’m here to see him on a very important matter,” and, dropping his voice, he added, “a matter which closely concerns himself.”
“Then tell me its nature.”
“It’s private, sir. Until Mr Statham gives me leave to tell you, I can’t.”
“But he wants to know the nature of the business,” answered the secretary, again struck by the old fellow’s pertinacity. It was not every man who would decline a rise of a pound a week in his salary. Rolfe was puzzled, but he knew old Sam well enough to be aware that even if a duke called he would refuse to see him. He only came to the City once a week to discuss matters with his brother Ben, and saw no outsider.
“I can’t tell ye why I want to see Mr Statham; that’s only his business and mine,” replied the bearded Scot. The clerks were now smiling at Rolfe’s vain attempts to get rid of him.
“Will you write it? Here—write on this slip of paper,” the secretary suggested.
The old fellow hesitated.
“Yes—if you’ll let me seal it up in an envelope.”
Rolfe at once assented, and, with considerable care, the old fellow wrote some pencilled lines, folded the paper, sealed it in the envelope, and wrote the superscription.
A few moments later, when Rolfe handed it to the old millionaire, who was still at his table chatting with his brother, he asked, in the snappish way habitual to him:—“Who’s this from—eh? Why am I bothered?”
“From the man Macgregor, from Glasgow. He won’t go away.”
“Then discharge the brute,” he replied, and with the note in his hand he finished a remark he had addressed to his brother.
At last, mechanically, he opened it, and his eyes fell upon the scribbled words.
His jaw dropped. The colour left his cheeks, and, sitting back, he glared straight at Rolfe as though he had seen an apparition.
For a few moments he seemed too confused to speak. Then, when he recovered himself, he said, half apologetically:—“Ben, I must see this man alone—a—a private matter. I—I had no idea—I—”
“Of course, Sam,” exclaimed his brother, leaving the room. “Let me know when he’s gone.”
“Rolfe, show him in,” the millionaire ordered. The instant his secretary had gone he sprang to his feet, examined his face in the small mirror over the mantelshelf for a moment, and then stood bracing himself up for the interview.
Chapter Nineteen.The Man who Loved.A few nights later Max Barclay was seated in the stalls of the Empire Theatre with Marion.They never went to the legitimate theatre because she had no evening-dress. Even to be seen in one would have caused comment among her fellow employés at Cunnington’s. The girls were never very charitable to each other, for in the pernicious system of “living-in” there is no privacy or home life, no sense of responsibility or of freedom.The average London shop girl has but little leisure and little rest. Chronically over-tired, she cares little to go out of an evening after the long shop hours, and looks forward to Sunday as the day when she can read in bed till noon if she chooses, snooze again in the afternoon, and perhaps go to a café in the evening. It was so with Marion. The sales were on, and there were “spiffs,” or premiums, placed by Mr Warner upon some out-of-date goods which it was every girl’s object to sell and thus earn the commission. So she was working very hard, and already held quite a respectable number of tickets representing “spiffs.”In a dark blue skirt, white silk blouse and black hat, she looked extremely pretty and modest as she sat beside her lover in the second row of the stalls, watching the ballet with its tuneful music, clever groupings, and phantasmagoria of colour. She glanced at the watch upon her wrist, and saw that it was nearly ten o’clock. In half an hour she would have to be “in.”The bondage of his well-beloved galled Max, yet he could say nothing. Her life was the same as that of a hundred thousand other girls in London. Indeed, was she not far better off that those poor girls who came up from their country homes to serve a year or two’s drudgery without payment in order to learn the art and mystery of “serving a customer”—girls who were orphans and without funds, and who very soon found the actual necessity of having a little pocket-money for dress and for something with which to relish the stale bread and butter doled out to them.The public have never yet adequately realised the hardships and tyranny of shop-life, where man is but a mere machine, liable to get the “sack” at a moment’s notice, and where woman is but an ill-fed, overworked drudge, liable at any moment to be thrown out penniless upon the great world of London.Some day ere long the revelation will come. There are certain big houses in London with pious shareholders and go-to-meeting directors which will earn the opprobrium of the whole British public when the naked truth regarding their female assistants is exposed. In “the trade” it is known, and one day there will arise a man bolder and more fearless than the rest, who will speak the truth, and, moreover, prove it.If in the meantime you want to know the truth concerning shop-life, ask the director of any of the numerous rescue societies in London. What you will be told will, I assure you, open your eyes.The couple of hours Max had spent with Marion proved delightful ones, as they always were. Promenading in the lounge above were many men-about-town whom he knew, and who, seeing him with the modest-looking girl, smiled knowingly. They never guessed the truth—that he loved her and intended to make her his wife.“Charlie is back from Glasgow,” she was saying. “He came to the shop this afternoon to ask if I had seen you, and to explain how the other night he, by a most fortunate circumstance, missed the Continental train, for next morning Mr Statham wanted him to do some very important business, and was delighted to find that he had not left. Another man has gone out to the East.”“If he wanted to know my movements he might have called at Dover Street,” Max remarked thoughtfully, the recollection of that night in Cromwell Road arising within him.“He seemed very busy, and said he had not a moment to spare. He was probably going north again. They have, he told me, some big order from Italy at the locomotive works.”“I thought Statham couldn’t do without him,” remarked Max. “Nowadays, however, he seems always travelling.”“He’s awfully kind to me—gave me a five-pound note this afternoon.”“What did he say about me?” inquired Max.“Oh! nothing very much. He asked me, among other things, whether I knew where you were on the night of the disappearance of the Doctor and his daughter.”Max started.“And what did you reply?”“That I hadn’t the slightest idea. I never saw you that evening,” was the girl’s frank response.Her lover nodded thoughtfully. It was now plain that Charlie suspected that he had detected him leaving the house and was endeavouring to either confirm his suspicion or dismiss it.“Did he tell you to-day where he was going?”“Back to Glasgow, I believe—but only for two days.”Max was seated at the end of the second row of the stalls, and beyond Marion were three or four vacant seats. At this juncture their conversation was interrupted by a man in well-cut evening-dress, his crush hat beneath his arms, advancing down the gangway and putting his hand out heartily to Max, exclaiming—“My dear Barclay! Excuse me, but I want very much a few words with you to-night, on a matter of great importance.” Then, glancing at Marion, he added: “I trust that Mademoiselle will forgive this intrusion?”The girl glanced at the new-comer, while her lover, taking the man’s hand, said—“My dear Adam, I, too, wanted to see you, and intended to call to-morrow. You are not intruding in the least. Here’s a seat. Allow me to introduce Miss Rolfe—Mr Jean Adam.”The man of double personality bowed again, and passing Marion and her lover, seated himself at her side, commencing to chat merrily, and explaining that he had recognised Max from the circle above. He had, it appeared, been to Dover Street an hour before, and Max’s man had told him where his master was spending the evening.Marion rather liked him. Max had already told her of this Frenchman who spoke English so well, and with whom he was doing business. In his speech he had the air and polish of the true cosmopolitan, and he also possessed a keen sense of humour.Presently Marion, glancing again at her watch, declared that she must leave. Max scarcely ever took her home. He always put her into a cab, and she descended at the corner of the street off Oxford Street, where Cunnington’s assistants had their big barrack-like dwelling, and walked home alone. It was her wish to do so, and he respected it.Therefore all three rose, and Max went outside with her and put her into a cab, promising to meet her on the following evening. In the bustle of Leicester Square at that hour, he could not kiss her; but as their hands grasped, their eyes met in a glance which both knew was one of trust and mutual affection.And so they parted, Max returning to the lounge where the Frenchman, Jean Adam,aliasthe Englishman John Adams, awaited him.They had a drink at the American bar, and then promenaded up and down in the gay crowd that nightly assembles in that popular resort. Max nodded to one or two men he knew—clubmen andhabituéslike himself, and then, after the show was over, they took a cab down to the Savoy to supper.The gay restaurant, with its crimson carpet and white decorations was crowded. To Gustave, who allotted the tables, Max was well-known, therefore a table for two in the left-hand corner of the big room—the table he usually occupied—was instantly secured, and the couple who had engaged were moved elsewhere. In the season Max had supper there on an average three nights a week, for at the Savoy one meets all one’s friends, and there is always music, life, and brightness after the theatre, until the licensing regulations cut off the merriment so abruptly.That night was no exception. The place was filled to overflowing with the smart world, together with many American visitors, the latest musical-comedy actresses and their male appendages, country cousins, men whose names were household words, and women whose pasts had appeared in black and white in the newspapers. A strange crowd, surely. Half the people were known to each other by sight, if not personally, and the other half were mere onlookers, filled with curiosity when Lord This or Dolly That were pointed out to them.Max and Jean Adam were seated with a bottle of Krug between them when the former exclaimed—“Well, how does our business go?”“That’s the reason I wanted to see you to-night,” was his companion’s reply with just a slight French accent. “I had some news from Constantinople to-day—confidential news from the Palace,” he added in an undertone, bending across the table. “I want you to read it and give your opinion.” And producing an envelope and letter on thin paper closely written in French, he handed it across to Barclay, as he added: “Now what is written there is the bed-rock fact, I know from independent inquiries I have made in an entirely different quarter.”Between mouthfuls of the perfectly-cookedfilet de soleplaced before him Max read the letter carefully. It was signed “your devoted friend Osman,” and was evidently from a Turkish official at the Yildiz Kiosk. Briefly, it was to the effect that theiradéof the Sultan for the construction of the railway from Nisch in Servia to San Giovanni di Medua, on the Adriatic, was in the hands of Muhil Pasha, one of his Majesty’s most intimate officials, and had been granted to him for services rendered in the Asiatic provinces.Muhil had offered to part with it for twelve thousand pounds sterling, and that the agent of a French Company had arrived in Constantinople in order to treat with him. Muhil, however, had no love for the French, since he was Ottoman Ambassador in Paris a few years ago, and got into disgrace there, hence he would be much more ready to sell to an English syndicate.The letter of Osman concluded by urging Adam to send instructions at once to a certain box at the British post-office in Constantinople, and to if possible secure the valuable document which would enable a line of railway to be built which would pay its shareholders enormously.“Well,” exclaimed Max, as he replaced the letter in its envelope, noting the surcharge in black—“1 piastre”—upon the blue English stamp. “What shall you do?”“Do? Why we must get the twelve thousand, of course. It’s a mere bagatelle compared with the magnitude of the business. I’ve got some reports in my overcoat pocket which I’ll show you after supper. We must get the thing through, my dear Barclay. There’s a big fortune in it for both of us—a huge fortune. Why, for the past ten years every diplomat at the Sublime Porte has been at work to get it through, but has been unsuccessful. The Sultan has always refused to let the line run through Turkish territory, fearing lest it should be used for military transport in the event of another war. His Majesty is not particularly partial to Austria, Servia, or Bulgaria, you know,” he laughed.“And hardly surprising, in view of past events, eh?” exclaimed Max, entirely ignorant of the real character of this man, who seemed a smart man of business combined with a genial companion. Adam was a past-master in the art of fraud. He did not press the point, but merely went on with his supper, swallowed a glass of champagne, and turned the conversation by admiring the graceful carriage of the head of a girl sitting near with a wreath of forget-me-nots across her fluffy fair hair.“Yes,” replied Max. “The poise of her head is full of grace, but—well, her face is like the carved handle of an umbrella!” Whereat his companion laughed heartily. Barclay was full of quaint expressions, and of a quiet but biting sarcasm. Some of hisbons motshad been repeated from month to mouth in the clubs until they became almost popular sayings. He was now in love entirely and devotedly with Marion, and no other woman of the thousand who passed before his eyes and smiled into his face had the least attraction for him.A moment later a pretty girl in pink, the Honourable Eva Townley, who was at supper with her mother and same friends, bowed to him and laughed, while another woman, the rather go-ahead wife of a leader at the Chancery Bar, waved a menu at him.Society knew Max, and many a woman had set her cap at him, hoping to capture the tall, well-set-up and easy-going young fellow, together with the ease and comfort which his substantial estates would afford.Max, however, had done a few years of town life. He had becomeblaséand nauseated. Since he had met Marion Rolfe the quiet, modest, unassuming and hard-working shop-assistant, thehaute mondebored him more than ever. He went only where he was compelled, yet he nowadays preferred the cheap Italian restaurant and Marion’s society to the tables of the rich with their ugly women striving to fascinate, and their small-talk of scandal, gossip and cruel innuendo.There is surely no world in the world like that of London—nothing so complex, so tragic, and yet so grimly humorous, so soul-killing, and yet so reckless as our little, lax world of vanity and display that calls itself Society, the world which thenouveau richeare ever seeking to enter by the back-door, and which the suburbs rush to see portrayed upon the stage of the theatre.Everywhere the manner and morals of Mayfair are aped nowadays. Mrs Browne-Smythe, the City clerk’s wife of tattling Tooting, has her “day,” and gives her bridge-parties just as does the Duchess of Dorsetshire in Grosvenor Square; and Mrs Claude Greene, the wife of the wholesale butcher, who was once a barmaid near the Meat Market, and now lives in matrimonial felicity in cliquey Clapham, “requests the company of” upon the self-same cards and with the self-same formula as the wife of Jimmy James the South African magnate in Park Lane.Max, glad that supper was over, rose and walked with his friend out into the big lounge where the Roumanian band were playing weird gipsy melodies, and sat at one of the little tables to smoke and sip Grand Marnier cordon rouge, being joined a few moments later by a couple of men whom he knew at the club, and who appeared to be at a loose end.At last the lights were turned down as signal that in five minutes it would be closing time, and then rifling, Max, ignorant of the ingenious plot, invited his friend Adam round to Dover Street for a final smoke.
A few nights later Max Barclay was seated in the stalls of the Empire Theatre with Marion.
They never went to the legitimate theatre because she had no evening-dress. Even to be seen in one would have caused comment among her fellow employés at Cunnington’s. The girls were never very charitable to each other, for in the pernicious system of “living-in” there is no privacy or home life, no sense of responsibility or of freedom.
The average London shop girl has but little leisure and little rest. Chronically over-tired, she cares little to go out of an evening after the long shop hours, and looks forward to Sunday as the day when she can read in bed till noon if she chooses, snooze again in the afternoon, and perhaps go to a café in the evening. It was so with Marion. The sales were on, and there were “spiffs,” or premiums, placed by Mr Warner upon some out-of-date goods which it was every girl’s object to sell and thus earn the commission. So she was working very hard, and already held quite a respectable number of tickets representing “spiffs.”
In a dark blue skirt, white silk blouse and black hat, she looked extremely pretty and modest as she sat beside her lover in the second row of the stalls, watching the ballet with its tuneful music, clever groupings, and phantasmagoria of colour. She glanced at the watch upon her wrist, and saw that it was nearly ten o’clock. In half an hour she would have to be “in.”
The bondage of his well-beloved galled Max, yet he could say nothing. Her life was the same as that of a hundred thousand other girls in London. Indeed, was she not far better off that those poor girls who came up from their country homes to serve a year or two’s drudgery without payment in order to learn the art and mystery of “serving a customer”—girls who were orphans and without funds, and who very soon found the actual necessity of having a little pocket-money for dress and for something with which to relish the stale bread and butter doled out to them.
The public have never yet adequately realised the hardships and tyranny of shop-life, where man is but a mere machine, liable to get the “sack” at a moment’s notice, and where woman is but an ill-fed, overworked drudge, liable at any moment to be thrown out penniless upon the great world of London.
Some day ere long the revelation will come. There are certain big houses in London with pious shareholders and go-to-meeting directors which will earn the opprobrium of the whole British public when the naked truth regarding their female assistants is exposed. In “the trade” it is known, and one day there will arise a man bolder and more fearless than the rest, who will speak the truth, and, moreover, prove it.
If in the meantime you want to know the truth concerning shop-life, ask the director of any of the numerous rescue societies in London. What you will be told will, I assure you, open your eyes.
The couple of hours Max had spent with Marion proved delightful ones, as they always were. Promenading in the lounge above were many men-about-town whom he knew, and who, seeing him with the modest-looking girl, smiled knowingly. They never guessed the truth—that he loved her and intended to make her his wife.
“Charlie is back from Glasgow,” she was saying. “He came to the shop this afternoon to ask if I had seen you, and to explain how the other night he, by a most fortunate circumstance, missed the Continental train, for next morning Mr Statham wanted him to do some very important business, and was delighted to find that he had not left. Another man has gone out to the East.”
“If he wanted to know my movements he might have called at Dover Street,” Max remarked thoughtfully, the recollection of that night in Cromwell Road arising within him.
“He seemed very busy, and said he had not a moment to spare. He was probably going north again. They have, he told me, some big order from Italy at the locomotive works.”
“I thought Statham couldn’t do without him,” remarked Max. “Nowadays, however, he seems always travelling.”
“He’s awfully kind to me—gave me a five-pound note this afternoon.”
“What did he say about me?” inquired Max.
“Oh! nothing very much. He asked me, among other things, whether I knew where you were on the night of the disappearance of the Doctor and his daughter.”
Max started.
“And what did you reply?”
“That I hadn’t the slightest idea. I never saw you that evening,” was the girl’s frank response.
Her lover nodded thoughtfully. It was now plain that Charlie suspected that he had detected him leaving the house and was endeavouring to either confirm his suspicion or dismiss it.
“Did he tell you to-day where he was going?”
“Back to Glasgow, I believe—but only for two days.”
Max was seated at the end of the second row of the stalls, and beyond Marion were three or four vacant seats. At this juncture their conversation was interrupted by a man in well-cut evening-dress, his crush hat beneath his arms, advancing down the gangway and putting his hand out heartily to Max, exclaiming—
“My dear Barclay! Excuse me, but I want very much a few words with you to-night, on a matter of great importance.” Then, glancing at Marion, he added: “I trust that Mademoiselle will forgive this intrusion?”
The girl glanced at the new-comer, while her lover, taking the man’s hand, said—
“My dear Adam, I, too, wanted to see you, and intended to call to-morrow. You are not intruding in the least. Here’s a seat. Allow me to introduce Miss Rolfe—Mr Jean Adam.”
The man of double personality bowed again, and passing Marion and her lover, seated himself at her side, commencing to chat merrily, and explaining that he had recognised Max from the circle above. He had, it appeared, been to Dover Street an hour before, and Max’s man had told him where his master was spending the evening.
Marion rather liked him. Max had already told her of this Frenchman who spoke English so well, and with whom he was doing business. In his speech he had the air and polish of the true cosmopolitan, and he also possessed a keen sense of humour.
Presently Marion, glancing again at her watch, declared that she must leave. Max scarcely ever took her home. He always put her into a cab, and she descended at the corner of the street off Oxford Street, where Cunnington’s assistants had their big barrack-like dwelling, and walked home alone. It was her wish to do so, and he respected it.
Therefore all three rose, and Max went outside with her and put her into a cab, promising to meet her on the following evening. In the bustle of Leicester Square at that hour, he could not kiss her; but as their hands grasped, their eyes met in a glance which both knew was one of trust and mutual affection.
And so they parted, Max returning to the lounge where the Frenchman, Jean Adam,aliasthe Englishman John Adams, awaited him.
They had a drink at the American bar, and then promenaded up and down in the gay crowd that nightly assembles in that popular resort. Max nodded to one or two men he knew—clubmen andhabituéslike himself, and then, after the show was over, they took a cab down to the Savoy to supper.
The gay restaurant, with its crimson carpet and white decorations was crowded. To Gustave, who allotted the tables, Max was well-known, therefore a table for two in the left-hand corner of the big room—the table he usually occupied—was instantly secured, and the couple who had engaged were moved elsewhere. In the season Max had supper there on an average three nights a week, for at the Savoy one meets all one’s friends, and there is always music, life, and brightness after the theatre, until the licensing regulations cut off the merriment so abruptly.
That night was no exception. The place was filled to overflowing with the smart world, together with many American visitors, the latest musical-comedy actresses and their male appendages, country cousins, men whose names were household words, and women whose pasts had appeared in black and white in the newspapers. A strange crowd, surely. Half the people were known to each other by sight, if not personally, and the other half were mere onlookers, filled with curiosity when Lord This or Dolly That were pointed out to them.
Max and Jean Adam were seated with a bottle of Krug between them when the former exclaimed—
“Well, how does our business go?”
“That’s the reason I wanted to see you to-night,” was his companion’s reply with just a slight French accent. “I had some news from Constantinople to-day—confidential news from the Palace,” he added in an undertone, bending across the table. “I want you to read it and give your opinion.” And producing an envelope and letter on thin paper closely written in French, he handed it across to Barclay, as he added: “Now what is written there is the bed-rock fact, I know from independent inquiries I have made in an entirely different quarter.”
Between mouthfuls of the perfectly-cookedfilet de soleplaced before him Max read the letter carefully. It was signed “your devoted friend Osman,” and was evidently from a Turkish official at the Yildiz Kiosk. Briefly, it was to the effect that theiradéof the Sultan for the construction of the railway from Nisch in Servia to San Giovanni di Medua, on the Adriatic, was in the hands of Muhil Pasha, one of his Majesty’s most intimate officials, and had been granted to him for services rendered in the Asiatic provinces.
Muhil had offered to part with it for twelve thousand pounds sterling, and that the agent of a French Company had arrived in Constantinople in order to treat with him. Muhil, however, had no love for the French, since he was Ottoman Ambassador in Paris a few years ago, and got into disgrace there, hence he would be much more ready to sell to an English syndicate.
The letter of Osman concluded by urging Adam to send instructions at once to a certain box at the British post-office in Constantinople, and to if possible secure the valuable document which would enable a line of railway to be built which would pay its shareholders enormously.
“Well,” exclaimed Max, as he replaced the letter in its envelope, noting the surcharge in black—“1 piastre”—upon the blue English stamp. “What shall you do?”
“Do? Why we must get the twelve thousand, of course. It’s a mere bagatelle compared with the magnitude of the business. I’ve got some reports in my overcoat pocket which I’ll show you after supper. We must get the thing through, my dear Barclay. There’s a big fortune in it for both of us—a huge fortune. Why, for the past ten years every diplomat at the Sublime Porte has been at work to get it through, but has been unsuccessful. The Sultan has always refused to let the line run through Turkish territory, fearing lest it should be used for military transport in the event of another war. His Majesty is not particularly partial to Austria, Servia, or Bulgaria, you know,” he laughed.
“And hardly surprising, in view of past events, eh?” exclaimed Max, entirely ignorant of the real character of this man, who seemed a smart man of business combined with a genial companion. Adam was a past-master in the art of fraud. He did not press the point, but merely went on with his supper, swallowed a glass of champagne, and turned the conversation by admiring the graceful carriage of the head of a girl sitting near with a wreath of forget-me-nots across her fluffy fair hair.
“Yes,” replied Max. “The poise of her head is full of grace, but—well, her face is like the carved handle of an umbrella!” Whereat his companion laughed heartily. Barclay was full of quaint expressions, and of a quiet but biting sarcasm. Some of hisbons motshad been repeated from month to mouth in the clubs until they became almost popular sayings. He was now in love entirely and devotedly with Marion, and no other woman of the thousand who passed before his eyes and smiled into his face had the least attraction for him.
A moment later a pretty girl in pink, the Honourable Eva Townley, who was at supper with her mother and same friends, bowed to him and laughed, while another woman, the rather go-ahead wife of a leader at the Chancery Bar, waved a menu at him.
Society knew Max, and many a woman had set her cap at him, hoping to capture the tall, well-set-up and easy-going young fellow, together with the ease and comfort which his substantial estates would afford.
Max, however, had done a few years of town life. He had becomeblaséand nauseated. Since he had met Marion Rolfe the quiet, modest, unassuming and hard-working shop-assistant, thehaute mondebored him more than ever. He went only where he was compelled, yet he nowadays preferred the cheap Italian restaurant and Marion’s society to the tables of the rich with their ugly women striving to fascinate, and their small-talk of scandal, gossip and cruel innuendo.
There is surely no world in the world like that of London—nothing so complex, so tragic, and yet so grimly humorous, so soul-killing, and yet so reckless as our little, lax world of vanity and display that calls itself Society, the world which thenouveau richeare ever seeking to enter by the back-door, and which the suburbs rush to see portrayed upon the stage of the theatre.
Everywhere the manner and morals of Mayfair are aped nowadays. Mrs Browne-Smythe, the City clerk’s wife of tattling Tooting, has her “day,” and gives her bridge-parties just as does the Duchess of Dorsetshire in Grosvenor Square; and Mrs Claude Greene, the wife of the wholesale butcher, who was once a barmaid near the Meat Market, and now lives in matrimonial felicity in cliquey Clapham, “requests the company of” upon the self-same cards and with the self-same formula as the wife of Jimmy James the South African magnate in Park Lane.
Max, glad that supper was over, rose and walked with his friend out into the big lounge where the Roumanian band were playing weird gipsy melodies, and sat at one of the little tables to smoke and sip Grand Marnier cordon rouge, being joined a few moments later by a couple of men whom he knew at the club, and who appeared to be at a loose end.
At last the lights were turned down as signal that in five minutes it would be closing time, and then rifling, Max, ignorant of the ingenious plot, invited his friend Adam round to Dover Street for a final smoke.
Chapter Twenty.Explains Jean Adam’s Suggestion.Over whiskey and soda in Barclay’s chambers, Jean Adam pushed his sinister plans a trifle further.He was aware that Max had taken the opinion of a man he knew on the Stock Exchange as to the probable value of the concession for the Danube-Adriatic Railway, and that his reply had been highly favourable. Therefore he was confident that such an opportunity of making money by an honest deal Max would not let slip.They had known each other several months, and Adam, with his engaging manner and courteous bearing, had wormed himself into the younger man’s confidence. A dozen times Max had been his host, but on each occasion the other took good care to quickly return the hospitality. To Max he represented himself as resident in Constantinople. A few years ago he had been fortunate enough to obtain a concession from the Ottoman Government which, being floated in Paris, had placed him in a very comfortable position; and he was now about to aim for bigger and more lucrative things.“You see,” he was saying as he produced an official report to the Foreign Office—a pamphlet-like document in a blue paper cover—“here is what our consul in Belgrade reported on the scheme two years ago. Such a line, he says, would tap nearly half the trade that now goes to Odessa, besides giving Servia a seaport. It will be the biggest thing in railways for years, depend upon it.”Max went to the writing-table, where the lamp was burning, and glanced through the paragraphs of the consular report and several other printed documents which his friend handed to him in succession. Then Adam produced a map, and upon it traced the route of the proposed line.“Well,” Barclay said at last, rising and lighting a cigar.“It all seems pretty plain sailing. I’ll go to-morrow and see old Statham about it. His secretary, Rolfe, is a friend of mine.”“No, Mr Barclay,” said the wily Adam. “If I were you I would not.”“Why?”“Well, if you do, you’ll queer all our plans—both yours and mine,” he mused vaguely.“How?”“Sam Statham has agents in Constantinople—agents who could offer Muhil double the price immediately, and the ground would be cut from under our feet. Statham knows a good thing when he sees it, you bet, and if he knew anything about this he wouldn’t stick at a thousand or two.”“Then he doesn’t know?”“At present he can’t know. It is a secret between Muhil, Osman, and myself?”“And what about the French people?”“Of course they know; but they’re not such fools as to let out the secret,” replied Adam.“Well, what do you suggest?” Max asked, taking a pull at the long tumbler.“That we keep the affair strictly to ourselves. Once we have the concession in our hands there’ll be a hundred men in the City ready to take it up. Why, old Statham would give us a big profit on it, especially if, as you say, you know his secretary.”“That was his secretary’s sister whom you met with me to-night,” Max remarked.“What an extremely pretty girl,” exclaimed Adam enthusiastically.“Think so?” asked Barclay with a smile of satisfaction. “Why, of course. A face like here isn’t seen every day. I was much struck with it when I first noticed you from the circle, and wondered whom she might be. Rolfe’s her name, is it?” he added with a feigned air of uncertainty.“Yes. Charlie Rolfe is old Sam’s confidential secretary.”“Well, afterwards, through him, we might interest Sam,” remarked Adam. “What we have first to do is to get hold of the concession.”“But how?”“By buying it.”The two men smoked in silence. Adam’s quick eye saw that the affair was full of attraction for the man he had marked down as victim.“You mean that I should put twelve thousand into it?” he said.“Not at all,” responded the wily Adam at once. “In any case I do not propose that you should put up the whole sum. My idea is that we should put up six thousand each.”“And go shares?”“And go shares,” repeated Adam, knocking the ash from his cigar. “But prior to doing so I think it would be only right for you to go out to Constantinople, see Muhil, and ascertain the truth of the whole affair. You have only my word for it all—and the letter. I quite admit that they are not sufficient guarantee for you to put down six thousand. You are too good a business man for that.”Max was flattered by that last sentence.“Well,” he said smiling, “I really think it would be more satisfactory if I had—well, some confirmation of all these comments.”“You can obtain that at once by going out to Constantinople,” declared Adam. “You’ll be out and home in ten days, and I’ll go with you,” he added persuasively.“Well, I shall have to consider it,” the younger man replied after a brief pause.“There is very little time to consider,” Adam said. “The French people are at work, and if they raise the purchase price to Muhil we shall be compelled to do the same.”“But we can get an option, I suppose?”“I have it. But it expires in ten days from to-morrow. After that Muhil will make the best terms he can with the French. The latter will have to pay through the nose, no doubt, but they’ll get it, without doubt. Their Embassy is helping them.”“And how long can I have to decide?”“To reach Constantinople in time we have six days more. We might then take the Orient Express from Paris and just do it. But,” he added, “of course if your inclination is against the journey and inquiry I hope you’ll allow me to assess it before somebody else. Personally,” he laughed, “I can’t afford to miss this chance of making a fortune. This, remember, is no wild mining speculation: it’s solid, bed-rock enterprise. The Servians surveyed the line four years ago and got out plans and estimates. There’s a printed copy of them at the Servian Consulate here in London. So it’s all cut-and-dried.”“Well I hope, Adam, you’ll allow me a little time to reflect. Six thousand is a decent sum, you know.”“I don’t want it until you’ve been out there and seen Muhil, Mr Barclay,” Adam declared. “Indeed, I refuse to touch it until you have personally satisfied yourself of thebonâ fidesof the scheme. Muhil himself must first assure you of the existence of theiradé, and that it is actually in is possession. Then I will put up six thousand if you will put up the balance.”“And if it is more than twelve?”“Why, we share the increase equally, of course.”“Very well. So far as it goes it is agreed,” said Max. “It only remains whether I go out to Turkey, or not.”“That’s all. The sooner you can decide, the better for our plans,” Adam remarked. “Only take good care that old Statham does not learn what’s in the wind. You know him, I believe?”“Yes, slightly. He’s a queer old fellow—very eccentric.”“So I’ve heard,” said the other, betraying ignorance. What would Max Barclay have thought if he had witnessed that scene so recently when the millionaire had glanced out of his cosy library and seen the shabby stranger lounging against the railings of the Park? What, indeed, would he have thought if he had witnessed old Sam’s consequent agitation, or overheard his confession to Rolfe?But he knew nothing of it all. Adam had shown him the best side of his nature—the easy-going and keen money-making cosmopolitan whose manner was so gentlemanly and so very charming. He had not seen the other—the side which Samuel Statham knew too well.Adam, seated there in the big saddle-bag chair, in the full enjoyment of the excellent cigar, knew that with the exercise of a little further ingenuity he would make the first step towards the goal he had in view. He was a man who took counsel of nobody, and even the old hunchback Lyle, his closest friend, knew nothing of his object in drawing Max Barclay, until recently a perfect stranger, into the fatal net spread for him.He smiled within himself as he calmly contemplated his victim through the haze of tobacco smoke. The dock upon the mantelshelf had struck two.He took a final drink, slipped on his coat, and with a merrybon soirand an injunction to make up his mind and wire him at the earliest moment, he shook his friend’s hand and went out.Max sat alone for a long time, still smoking. In his ignorance he was reflecting that the business seemed a sound one. Adam had not asked him to put down money before full inquiry, and had, at the same time, offered to put up half. This latter fact, in itself, showed that his friend had confidence in the scheme.And so, before he turned in that night, he had practically made up his mind to pay a flying visit to the Sultan’s capital. There could be no harm done, he argued. He had never been in Constantinople, and to go there with a resident like Adam was in itself an opportunity not to be missed.Meanwhile the astute concession-hunter, as he drove to Addison Road in a cab, was calmly plotting a further step in the direction he was slowly but surely following. His daring and ingenuity knew no bounds. He was a man full of energy and resource, unabashed, undaunted, unscrupulous, and yet to all, even to his most intimate friend, a perfect sphinx.The second step in his progress he took on the evening of the day after.In the afternoon, about four, a shabbily-dressed man called upon him at his flat, and they remained together for ten minutes or so. At half-past eight, as Marion was about to enter a ’bus at Oxford Circus to take her up to Hampstead for a blow—a trip she frequently took in the evening when alone—she heard her name uttered, and turning, found Max’s polite French friend behind her, about to mount on the same conveyance.To avoid him was impossible, therefore they ascended to the top together, he declaring that he was on his way to Hampstead.“I’m going there too,” she told him, although he already knew it quite well. “Have you seen Mr Barclay to-day?”“Not to-day. I have been busy in the City,” Adam explained. He glanced at her, and could not refrain from noting her neat appearance, dressed as she was in a black skirt, white cotton blouse, and a black hat which suited her beauty admirably. He knew that she was at Cunnington’s, but, of course, appeared in ignorance of the fact. He was most kind and courteous to her, and so well had he arranged the meeting that she believed it to be entirely an accident.Presently, after they had chatted for some time, he sighed, saying—“In a few days I suppose I must leave London again.”“Oh! are you going abroad?”“Yes, to Constantinople. I live there,” he said.“In Constantinople! How very strange it must be to live among the Turks!”“It is a very charming life, I assure you, Miss Rolfe,” he answered. “The Turk is always a gentleman, and his country is full of beauty and attraction, even though his capital may be muddy under foot.”“Oh, well,” she said laughing, “I don’t think I should care to live there. I should be afraid of them!”“Your fears would be quite ungrounded,” he declared. “A lady can walk unmolested in the streets of Constantinople at any hour of the day or night, which cannot be said, of your London here.”Then, after a pause, he added—“I think your friend Mr Barclay is coming with me.”“With you?—to Constantinople?” she exclaimed in dismay. “When?”“In two or three days,” he replied. “But you mustn’t tell him I said so,” he went on. “We are going out on business—business that will bring us both a sum of money that will be a fortune to me, if not to Mr Barclay. We are in partnership over it.”“What nature is the business?”“The building of a railroad to the Adriatic. We are obtaining permission from the Sultan for its construction.”“And Max—I mean Mr Barclay—will make a large sum?” she asked with deep interest.“Yes, if he decides to go,” replied Adam; “but I fear very much one thing,” and he fixed his dark eyes upon hers.“What do you fear?”“Well—how shall I put it, Miss Rolfe?” he asked. “I—I fear that he will refuse to go because he does not wish to leave London just now.”“Why not?”“He has an attraction here,” the man laughed—“yourself.”She coloured slightly. Max had probably told this friend that they were lovers.“Oh! that’s quite foolish. He must go, if it is really in his interests.”“Exactly,” declared Adam. “I have all my life been looking for such a chance to make money, and it has at last arrived. He must go.”“Most certainly. I will urge him strongly.”“A word from you, Miss Rolfe, would decide him—but—well, don’t you think it would be best if you did not tell him that we had met. He might not like it if he knew we had discussed his business affairs—eh?”“Very well,” she said. “I will say nothing. When he speaks to me about the suggested journey I will strongly advise him to go in his own interests.”“Yes; do. It will be the means of putting many thousands of pounds into both our pockets. The matter is, in fact, entirely in your hands. May I with safety leave it there?”“With perfect safety, Mr Adam,” was her reply. “It is, perhaps, fortunate that we should have met like this to-night.”“Fortunate!” he echoed. “Most fortunate for all of us. If you are really Mr Barclay’s friend you will see that he goes with me.”“I am his friend, and he shall go if it is to his interest to do go.”“Ask him, and he will tell you,” was the reply of the man who had lounged in Park Lane as a shabby stranger, and of whom old Sam Statham went in such deadly fear.He went with Marion to the end of her journey, and then left her in pretence of walking to his destination.But after he had raised his hat to her so politely, and bent over her hand, he turned on his heel muttering to himself—“You think you are his friend, my poor, silly little girl! No. You will compel him to go with me to the East, and thus become my catspaw—the tool of Jean Adam.”And giving vent to a short, dry laugh of triumph, he went on his way.
Over whiskey and soda in Barclay’s chambers, Jean Adam pushed his sinister plans a trifle further.
He was aware that Max had taken the opinion of a man he knew on the Stock Exchange as to the probable value of the concession for the Danube-Adriatic Railway, and that his reply had been highly favourable. Therefore he was confident that such an opportunity of making money by an honest deal Max would not let slip.
They had known each other several months, and Adam, with his engaging manner and courteous bearing, had wormed himself into the younger man’s confidence. A dozen times Max had been his host, but on each occasion the other took good care to quickly return the hospitality. To Max he represented himself as resident in Constantinople. A few years ago he had been fortunate enough to obtain a concession from the Ottoman Government which, being floated in Paris, had placed him in a very comfortable position; and he was now about to aim for bigger and more lucrative things.
“You see,” he was saying as he produced an official report to the Foreign Office—a pamphlet-like document in a blue paper cover—“here is what our consul in Belgrade reported on the scheme two years ago. Such a line, he says, would tap nearly half the trade that now goes to Odessa, besides giving Servia a seaport. It will be the biggest thing in railways for years, depend upon it.”
Max went to the writing-table, where the lamp was burning, and glanced through the paragraphs of the consular report and several other printed documents which his friend handed to him in succession. Then Adam produced a map, and upon it traced the route of the proposed line.
“Well,” Barclay said at last, rising and lighting a cigar.
“It all seems pretty plain sailing. I’ll go to-morrow and see old Statham about it. His secretary, Rolfe, is a friend of mine.”
“No, Mr Barclay,” said the wily Adam. “If I were you I would not.”
“Why?”
“Well, if you do, you’ll queer all our plans—both yours and mine,” he mused vaguely.
“How?”
“Sam Statham has agents in Constantinople—agents who could offer Muhil double the price immediately, and the ground would be cut from under our feet. Statham knows a good thing when he sees it, you bet, and if he knew anything about this he wouldn’t stick at a thousand or two.”
“Then he doesn’t know?”
“At present he can’t know. It is a secret between Muhil, Osman, and myself?”
“And what about the French people?”
“Of course they know; but they’re not such fools as to let out the secret,” replied Adam.
“Well, what do you suggest?” Max asked, taking a pull at the long tumbler.
“That we keep the affair strictly to ourselves. Once we have the concession in our hands there’ll be a hundred men in the City ready to take it up. Why, old Statham would give us a big profit on it, especially if, as you say, you know his secretary.”
“That was his secretary’s sister whom you met with me to-night,” Max remarked.
“What an extremely pretty girl,” exclaimed Adam enthusiastically.
“Think so?” asked Barclay with a smile of satisfaction. “Why, of course. A face like here isn’t seen every day. I was much struck with it when I first noticed you from the circle, and wondered whom she might be. Rolfe’s her name, is it?” he added with a feigned air of uncertainty.
“Yes. Charlie Rolfe is old Sam’s confidential secretary.”
“Well, afterwards, through him, we might interest Sam,” remarked Adam. “What we have first to do is to get hold of the concession.”
“But how?”
“By buying it.”
The two men smoked in silence. Adam’s quick eye saw that the affair was full of attraction for the man he had marked down as victim.
“You mean that I should put twelve thousand into it?” he said.
“Not at all,” responded the wily Adam at once. “In any case I do not propose that you should put up the whole sum. My idea is that we should put up six thousand each.”
“And go shares?”
“And go shares,” repeated Adam, knocking the ash from his cigar. “But prior to doing so I think it would be only right for you to go out to Constantinople, see Muhil, and ascertain the truth of the whole affair. You have only my word for it all—and the letter. I quite admit that they are not sufficient guarantee for you to put down six thousand. You are too good a business man for that.”
Max was flattered by that last sentence.
“Well,” he said smiling, “I really think it would be more satisfactory if I had—well, some confirmation of all these comments.”
“You can obtain that at once by going out to Constantinople,” declared Adam. “You’ll be out and home in ten days, and I’ll go with you,” he added persuasively.
“Well, I shall have to consider it,” the younger man replied after a brief pause.
“There is very little time to consider,” Adam said. “The French people are at work, and if they raise the purchase price to Muhil we shall be compelled to do the same.”
“But we can get an option, I suppose?”
“I have it. But it expires in ten days from to-morrow. After that Muhil will make the best terms he can with the French. The latter will have to pay through the nose, no doubt, but they’ll get it, without doubt. Their Embassy is helping them.”
“And how long can I have to decide?”
“To reach Constantinople in time we have six days more. We might then take the Orient Express from Paris and just do it. But,” he added, “of course if your inclination is against the journey and inquiry I hope you’ll allow me to assess it before somebody else. Personally,” he laughed, “I can’t afford to miss this chance of making a fortune. This, remember, is no wild mining speculation: it’s solid, bed-rock enterprise. The Servians surveyed the line four years ago and got out plans and estimates. There’s a printed copy of them at the Servian Consulate here in London. So it’s all cut-and-dried.”
“Well I hope, Adam, you’ll allow me a little time to reflect. Six thousand is a decent sum, you know.”
“I don’t want it until you’ve been out there and seen Muhil, Mr Barclay,” Adam declared. “Indeed, I refuse to touch it until you have personally satisfied yourself of thebonâ fidesof the scheme. Muhil himself must first assure you of the existence of theiradé, and that it is actually in is possession. Then I will put up six thousand if you will put up the balance.”
“And if it is more than twelve?”
“Why, we share the increase equally, of course.”
“Very well. So far as it goes it is agreed,” said Max. “It only remains whether I go out to Turkey, or not.”
“That’s all. The sooner you can decide, the better for our plans,” Adam remarked. “Only take good care that old Statham does not learn what’s in the wind. You know him, I believe?”
“Yes, slightly. He’s a queer old fellow—very eccentric.”
“So I’ve heard,” said the other, betraying ignorance. What would Max Barclay have thought if he had witnessed that scene so recently when the millionaire had glanced out of his cosy library and seen the shabby stranger lounging against the railings of the Park? What, indeed, would he have thought if he had witnessed old Sam’s consequent agitation, or overheard his confession to Rolfe?
But he knew nothing of it all. Adam had shown him the best side of his nature—the easy-going and keen money-making cosmopolitan whose manner was so gentlemanly and so very charming. He had not seen the other—the side which Samuel Statham knew too well.
Adam, seated there in the big saddle-bag chair, in the full enjoyment of the excellent cigar, knew that with the exercise of a little further ingenuity he would make the first step towards the goal he had in view. He was a man who took counsel of nobody, and even the old hunchback Lyle, his closest friend, knew nothing of his object in drawing Max Barclay, until recently a perfect stranger, into the fatal net spread for him.
He smiled within himself as he calmly contemplated his victim through the haze of tobacco smoke. The dock upon the mantelshelf had struck two.
He took a final drink, slipped on his coat, and with a merrybon soirand an injunction to make up his mind and wire him at the earliest moment, he shook his friend’s hand and went out.
Max sat alone for a long time, still smoking. In his ignorance he was reflecting that the business seemed a sound one. Adam had not asked him to put down money before full inquiry, and had, at the same time, offered to put up half. This latter fact, in itself, showed that his friend had confidence in the scheme.
And so, before he turned in that night, he had practically made up his mind to pay a flying visit to the Sultan’s capital. There could be no harm done, he argued. He had never been in Constantinople, and to go there with a resident like Adam was in itself an opportunity not to be missed.
Meanwhile the astute concession-hunter, as he drove to Addison Road in a cab, was calmly plotting a further step in the direction he was slowly but surely following. His daring and ingenuity knew no bounds. He was a man full of energy and resource, unabashed, undaunted, unscrupulous, and yet to all, even to his most intimate friend, a perfect sphinx.
The second step in his progress he took on the evening of the day after.
In the afternoon, about four, a shabbily-dressed man called upon him at his flat, and they remained together for ten minutes or so. At half-past eight, as Marion was about to enter a ’bus at Oxford Circus to take her up to Hampstead for a blow—a trip she frequently took in the evening when alone—she heard her name uttered, and turning, found Max’s polite French friend behind her, about to mount on the same conveyance.
To avoid him was impossible, therefore they ascended to the top together, he declaring that he was on his way to Hampstead.
“I’m going there too,” she told him, although he already knew it quite well. “Have you seen Mr Barclay to-day?”
“Not to-day. I have been busy in the City,” Adam explained. He glanced at her, and could not refrain from noting her neat appearance, dressed as she was in a black skirt, white cotton blouse, and a black hat which suited her beauty admirably. He knew that she was at Cunnington’s, but, of course, appeared in ignorance of the fact. He was most kind and courteous to her, and so well had he arranged the meeting that she believed it to be entirely an accident.
Presently, after they had chatted for some time, he sighed, saying—
“In a few days I suppose I must leave London again.”
“Oh! are you going abroad?”
“Yes, to Constantinople. I live there,” he said.
“In Constantinople! How very strange it must be to live among the Turks!”
“It is a very charming life, I assure you, Miss Rolfe,” he answered. “The Turk is always a gentleman, and his country is full of beauty and attraction, even though his capital may be muddy under foot.”
“Oh, well,” she said laughing, “I don’t think I should care to live there. I should be afraid of them!”
“Your fears would be quite ungrounded,” he declared. “A lady can walk unmolested in the streets of Constantinople at any hour of the day or night, which cannot be said, of your London here.”
Then, after a pause, he added—
“I think your friend Mr Barclay is coming with me.”
“With you?—to Constantinople?” she exclaimed in dismay. “When?”
“In two or three days,” he replied. “But you mustn’t tell him I said so,” he went on. “We are going out on business—business that will bring us both a sum of money that will be a fortune to me, if not to Mr Barclay. We are in partnership over it.”
“What nature is the business?”
“The building of a railroad to the Adriatic. We are obtaining permission from the Sultan for its construction.”
“And Max—I mean Mr Barclay—will make a large sum?” she asked with deep interest.
“Yes, if he decides to go,” replied Adam; “but I fear very much one thing,” and he fixed his dark eyes upon hers.
“What do you fear?”
“Well—how shall I put it, Miss Rolfe?” he asked. “I—I fear that he will refuse to go because he does not wish to leave London just now.”
“Why not?”
“He has an attraction here,” the man laughed—“yourself.”
She coloured slightly. Max had probably told this friend that they were lovers.
“Oh! that’s quite foolish. He must go, if it is really in his interests.”
“Exactly,” declared Adam. “I have all my life been looking for such a chance to make money, and it has at last arrived. He must go.”
“Most certainly. I will urge him strongly.”
“A word from you, Miss Rolfe, would decide him—but—well, don’t you think it would be best if you did not tell him that we had met. He might not like it if he knew we had discussed his business affairs—eh?”
“Very well,” she said. “I will say nothing. When he speaks to me about the suggested journey I will strongly advise him to go in his own interests.”
“Yes; do. It will be the means of putting many thousands of pounds into both our pockets. The matter is, in fact, entirely in your hands. May I with safety leave it there?”
“With perfect safety, Mr Adam,” was her reply. “It is, perhaps, fortunate that we should have met like this to-night.”
“Fortunate!” he echoed. “Most fortunate for all of us. If you are really Mr Barclay’s friend you will see that he goes with me.”
“I am his friend, and he shall go if it is to his interest to do go.”
“Ask him, and he will tell you,” was the reply of the man who had lounged in Park Lane as a shabby stranger, and of whom old Sam Statham went in such deadly fear.
He went with Marion to the end of her journey, and then left her in pretence of walking to his destination.
But after he had raised his hat to her so politely, and bent over her hand, he turned on his heel muttering to himself—
“You think you are his friend, my poor, silly little girl! No. You will compel him to go with me to the East, and thus become my catspaw—the tool of Jean Adam.”
And giving vent to a short, dry laugh of triumph, he went on his way.