Chapter Twenty Eight.

Chapter Twenty Eight.Old Sam has a Visitor.It was past midnight.At eleven o’clock old Sam Statham had descended from the mysterious upper regions, emerged from the green baize door upon the stairs, which concealed another white-enamelled door—a door of iron, and, passing down to the study, had switched on the electric light, thrown himself wearily into an armchair, and lit a cigar.Upon his grey, drawn countenance was a serious apprehensive look, as of a man who anticipated serious trouble, and who was trying in vain to brave himself up to face it. For nearly half an hour he had smoked on alone, now and then muttering to himself, his bony fingers clenched as though anticipating revenge. The big room was so silent at that hour that a pin if dropped might have been heard. Only the clock ticked on solemnly, and striking the half-hour upon its silvery bell.The old millionaire who, on passing through that baize-covered door, had locked the inner door so carefully after him, seemed strangely agitated. So apprehensive was he that Levi, entering some time afterwards, said in his sharp, brusque manner:“I thought you had retired long ago. What’s the matter?”“I have an appointment,” snapped his master; “an important one.”“Rather late, isn’t it?” suggested the old servant. “Remember that there are spies about. That little affair the other night aroused some curiosity—I’m certain of it.”“Among a few common passers-by. Bah! my dear Levi, they don’t know anything.”“But they may talk! This house has already got a bad name, you know.”“Well, that’s surely not my fault,” cried the old man with a fiery flash in his eyes. “It’s more your fault for acting so infernally suspiciously and mysteriously. I know quite well what people say of me.”“A good deal that’s true,” declared old Levi in open defiance of the man in whose service he had been so long.Sam Statham grinned. It was a subject which he did not wish to discuss.“You can go to bed, Levi. I’ll open the door,” he said to the man who was his janitor.“Who’s coming?” inquired Levi abruptly.“A friend. I want to talk to him seriously and alone.”“What’s his name?”“Don’t be so infernally inquisitive, Levi. Go to bed, I tell you,” he croaked with a commanding wave of the hand.The servant never thwarted his master’s wishes. He knew Sam Statham too well. A strange smile played about the corners of his mouth, and he looked around to see that the whisky, syphons and glasses were on the side table. Then with a rather ill-grace said:“Very well—good-night,” and, bowing, he retired.When the door had closed the old millionaire ground his teeth, muttering:“You must always poke your infernal long nose into my affairs. But this matter I’ll keep to myself just for once. I’m tired of your constant interference and advice. Ah!” he sighed. “How strange life is! Samuel Statham, millionaire, they call me. I saw it in thePall Mallto-night. Rather Sam Statham, pauper—the Pauper of Park Lane! Ah! If the public only knew! If they only knew!” he gasped, halting suddenly and staring wildly about him. “What would be my future—what will it be when my enemies, like a pack of wolves, fall upon me and tear me limb from limb? Yes, yes, they’ll do that if I am unable to save myself.“But why need I anticipate failure? What does the sacrifice of one woman matter when it will mean the assurance of my future—my salvation from ruin?” he went on, speaking to himself in a low, hoarse voice. “It’s a thing I cannot tell Levi. He must find it out. He will—one day—when the police inquiries give him the clue,” and he snapped his own white fingers nervously and glanced at the clock in apprehension.He threw down his cigar, for it had gone out a long time ago. Sam Statham’s life had been made up of many crises, and one of these he was passing through on that hot, breathless night after the motor-’buses had ceased their roar in Park Lane and tinkling cab-bells were few and far between.One o’clock, the sound of the gong arousing him. He switched off the light, and, walking to the window, raised one of the slats of the Venetian blinds and peered out upon the pavement where so recently he had first recognised that man from the grave—the man Jean Adam.He stood behind the blue brocade curtains, watching eagerly. The passers-by were few—very few. Lower-class London was mostly at Margate and Ramsgate, while “the West-End” was totally absent, in Scotland or at the sea.He was wondering if Levi had really gone to bed. Or was he lurking there to ascertain who might be the visitor expected? Old Sam crept noiselessly to the door, and, opening it, peered out. The wide hall was now in darkness. Levi had, apparently, obeyed his orders and gone below to bed. And yet, so faithful was he to his trust that nobody could ever enter that house without him being aware of the identity of the visitor.Sometimes old Sam would regret the brusque manner in which he treated the man who was so entirely devoted to him and who shared so many of his secrets.But the secret of that night he did not intend Levi to share. It was his—and should be his alone. And for that person he was waiting to himself open the door to his midnight caller.He was about to close the study door again when he fancied he heard a slight movement in the darkness of the hall. “Levi!” he exclaimed angrily. “What are you doing here when I ordered you to retire?”“I’m doing my duty,” responded the old servant, advancing out of the shadow. “I do not wish you to go to the door alone, and at night. You do not take sufficient care of your personal safety.”“Rubbish! I have no fear,” he answered as both stood there in the darkness.“Yes, but, you are injudicious,” declared the old servant. “If not, you would have heeded young Rolfe’s warning, and your present dangerous position might have been avoided. Adams means mischief. You surely can’t close your eyes to that!”“I know he does,” answered the millionaire in a voice that seemed harsh and hollow. “I know I was a fool.”“You took a false step, and can’t retrace it. If you had consulted me I would have given you my views upon the situation.”“Yes, Levi. You’re far too fond of expounding your view on subjects of which you have no knowledge. Your incessant chatter often annoys me,” was his master’s response. “If I have committed an error, it is my affair—not yours. So go to bed, and leave me alone.”“I shall not,” was Levi’s open reply.“I’m master here. I order you to go!” cried Sam Statham in an angry, commanding tone.“And I refuse. I will not allow you to run any further risk.”“What do you anticipate?” his master asked with sarcasm. “Are you expecting that my enemies intend to kill me in secret. If so, I can quickly disabuse your mind. It would not be to their interests if I were dead, for they could not then bleed me, as is, no doubt, their intention. I know Adams and his friends.”“So do I,” declared Levi. “Whatever plot they have formed against you is no doubt clever and ingenious. They are not men to act until every preparation is complete.”“Then why fear for my personal safety?” asked the millionaire. “I always have this—and I can use it,” and he drew from his pocket something which glistened in the darkness—a neat plated revolver.“I fear, because of late you’ve acted so injudiciously.”“Through ignorance. I believed myself to be more shrewd than I really am. You see I admit my failing to you, Levi. But only to you—to nobody else. The City believes Sam Statham to possess the keenest mind and sharpest wits of any man between Temple Bar and Aldgate. Strange, isn’t it, that each one of us earns a reputation for something in which really does not excel?”“You excel in disbelieving everybody,” remarked Levi outspokenly. “If you believed that there was some little honesty in human nature you might have been spared the present danger.”“You mean I’m too suspicious—eh? My experience of life has made me so,” he growled. “Of the thousand employees I possess, is there a man among them honest? And as for my friends, is there one I can trust—except Ben and yourself, of course?”“What about Rolfe?”Sam Statham hesitated. It was a question put too abruptly—a question not easily decided on the spur of the moment. Of course, ever since his failure to go to Belgrade, he had entertained some misgivings regarding his secretary. There was more than one point of fact which did not coincide with Rolfe’s statements. The old man was quickly suspicious, and when he scented mystery, it was always a long time before his doubts were allayed. Like every man of great wealth, he had been surrounded by sycophants, who had endeavoured to get rich at his expense. The very men he had helped to fortune had turned round afterwards and abused and libelled him. It was that which had long ago soured him against his fellow men, and aroused in his heart a disbelief in all protestation of honesty and uprightness.Levi recognised his master’s lack of confidence in Rolfe, and it caused him to wonder. Hitherto he had been full of praise of the clever and energetic young secretary by whose smart business methods several great concerns in which he had controlling interest had been put into a flourishing condition. But now, quite of a sudden, there was a hesitancy which told too plainly of lack of confidence. Was the star of Rolfe’s prosperity on the wane?If so, Levi felt sorry, for he was attached to the young man, whom he felt confident had the interests of his master thoroughly at heart. Old Levi was a queer fish. He had seldom taken to anybody as he had done to Mr Rolfe, who happily cracked a joke with him and asked after his rheumatics.“Levi,” exclaimed Statham after a few moments of silence, “is it not absurd for us to chatter here, in the darkness? It’s past one. I wish you to go downstairs and leave me alone.”“Why?” demanded the old retainer.“Because I have a strong reason for opening the door myself. I—well I promised that my visitor should be seen by no one except myself. Now, do you understand?”Levi did not answer for a few moments.“Then in that case,” he said with reluctance, “I suppose I must do as you wish, only I’m very much against you opening the door yourself. You know that!”And grunting, his dark figure moved along the hall, and he disappeared down the stairs, wishing his master “good-night.”Statham, having listened to his retreating footsteps, re-entered the library, which was still unlit, and, going again to the window, peered forth into Park Lane.Rain was falling, and the street-lamps cast long lines of light upon the shining pavements. In the faint ray of light that fell across the room from without he bent and looked at his watch. It was half-past one—the hour of the appointment.The old fellow raised both hands to his head and smoothed back his grey hair. Then he drew a long sigh, and waited in patience, peering forth in eager expectancy.For another ten minutes he remained almost motionless until at last his ear caught the sound of a footstep coming from the direction of Oxford Street, and a dark figure, passing the window, stopped beneath the porch.Next second he flew along the hall to the door, opening it noiselessly to admit a woman in a black tailor-made gown and motor-cap, her features but half concealed by a thin veil of grey gauze.She crossed the threshold without speaking, for he raised his finger as though to command her silence. Then, when he had closed the door behind her and slipped the bolt into its socket, he conducted her along to the dark study, without uttering a word.Her attitude and gait was that of fear and hesitancy; as though she already regretted having come there, and would fain make her escape—if escape were possible.

It was past midnight.

At eleven o’clock old Sam Statham had descended from the mysterious upper regions, emerged from the green baize door upon the stairs, which concealed another white-enamelled door—a door of iron, and, passing down to the study, had switched on the electric light, thrown himself wearily into an armchair, and lit a cigar.

Upon his grey, drawn countenance was a serious apprehensive look, as of a man who anticipated serious trouble, and who was trying in vain to brave himself up to face it. For nearly half an hour he had smoked on alone, now and then muttering to himself, his bony fingers clenched as though anticipating revenge. The big room was so silent at that hour that a pin if dropped might have been heard. Only the clock ticked on solemnly, and striking the half-hour upon its silvery bell.

The old millionaire who, on passing through that baize-covered door, had locked the inner door so carefully after him, seemed strangely agitated. So apprehensive was he that Levi, entering some time afterwards, said in his sharp, brusque manner:

“I thought you had retired long ago. What’s the matter?”

“I have an appointment,” snapped his master; “an important one.”

“Rather late, isn’t it?” suggested the old servant. “Remember that there are spies about. That little affair the other night aroused some curiosity—I’m certain of it.”

“Among a few common passers-by. Bah! my dear Levi, they don’t know anything.”

“But they may talk! This house has already got a bad name, you know.”

“Well, that’s surely not my fault,” cried the old man with a fiery flash in his eyes. “It’s more your fault for acting so infernally suspiciously and mysteriously. I know quite well what people say of me.”

“A good deal that’s true,” declared old Levi in open defiance of the man in whose service he had been so long.

Sam Statham grinned. It was a subject which he did not wish to discuss.

“You can go to bed, Levi. I’ll open the door,” he said to the man who was his janitor.

“Who’s coming?” inquired Levi abruptly.

“A friend. I want to talk to him seriously and alone.”

“What’s his name?”

“Don’t be so infernally inquisitive, Levi. Go to bed, I tell you,” he croaked with a commanding wave of the hand.

The servant never thwarted his master’s wishes. He knew Sam Statham too well. A strange smile played about the corners of his mouth, and he looked around to see that the whisky, syphons and glasses were on the side table. Then with a rather ill-grace said:

“Very well—good-night,” and, bowing, he retired.

When the door had closed the old millionaire ground his teeth, muttering:

“You must always poke your infernal long nose into my affairs. But this matter I’ll keep to myself just for once. I’m tired of your constant interference and advice. Ah!” he sighed. “How strange life is! Samuel Statham, millionaire, they call me. I saw it in thePall Mallto-night. Rather Sam Statham, pauper—the Pauper of Park Lane! Ah! If the public only knew! If they only knew!” he gasped, halting suddenly and staring wildly about him. “What would be my future—what will it be when my enemies, like a pack of wolves, fall upon me and tear me limb from limb? Yes, yes, they’ll do that if I am unable to save myself.

“But why need I anticipate failure? What does the sacrifice of one woman matter when it will mean the assurance of my future—my salvation from ruin?” he went on, speaking to himself in a low, hoarse voice. “It’s a thing I cannot tell Levi. He must find it out. He will—one day—when the police inquiries give him the clue,” and he snapped his own white fingers nervously and glanced at the clock in apprehension.

He threw down his cigar, for it had gone out a long time ago. Sam Statham’s life had been made up of many crises, and one of these he was passing through on that hot, breathless night after the motor-’buses had ceased their roar in Park Lane and tinkling cab-bells were few and far between.

One o’clock, the sound of the gong arousing him. He switched off the light, and, walking to the window, raised one of the slats of the Venetian blinds and peered out upon the pavement where so recently he had first recognised that man from the grave—the man Jean Adam.

He stood behind the blue brocade curtains, watching eagerly. The passers-by were few—very few. Lower-class London was mostly at Margate and Ramsgate, while “the West-End” was totally absent, in Scotland or at the sea.

He was wondering if Levi had really gone to bed. Or was he lurking there to ascertain who might be the visitor expected? Old Sam crept noiselessly to the door, and, opening it, peered out. The wide hall was now in darkness. Levi had, apparently, obeyed his orders and gone below to bed. And yet, so faithful was he to his trust that nobody could ever enter that house without him being aware of the identity of the visitor.

Sometimes old Sam would regret the brusque manner in which he treated the man who was so entirely devoted to him and who shared so many of his secrets.

But the secret of that night he did not intend Levi to share. It was his—and should be his alone. And for that person he was waiting to himself open the door to his midnight caller.

He was about to close the study door again when he fancied he heard a slight movement in the darkness of the hall. “Levi!” he exclaimed angrily. “What are you doing here when I ordered you to retire?”

“I’m doing my duty,” responded the old servant, advancing out of the shadow. “I do not wish you to go to the door alone, and at night. You do not take sufficient care of your personal safety.”

“Rubbish! I have no fear,” he answered as both stood there in the darkness.

“Yes, but, you are injudicious,” declared the old servant. “If not, you would have heeded young Rolfe’s warning, and your present dangerous position might have been avoided. Adams means mischief. You surely can’t close your eyes to that!”

“I know he does,” answered the millionaire in a voice that seemed harsh and hollow. “I know I was a fool.”

“You took a false step, and can’t retrace it. If you had consulted me I would have given you my views upon the situation.”

“Yes, Levi. You’re far too fond of expounding your view on subjects of which you have no knowledge. Your incessant chatter often annoys me,” was his master’s response. “If I have committed an error, it is my affair—not yours. So go to bed, and leave me alone.”

“I shall not,” was Levi’s open reply.

“I’m master here. I order you to go!” cried Sam Statham in an angry, commanding tone.

“And I refuse. I will not allow you to run any further risk.”

“What do you anticipate?” his master asked with sarcasm. “Are you expecting that my enemies intend to kill me in secret. If so, I can quickly disabuse your mind. It would not be to their interests if I were dead, for they could not then bleed me, as is, no doubt, their intention. I know Adams and his friends.”

“So do I,” declared Levi. “Whatever plot they have formed against you is no doubt clever and ingenious. They are not men to act until every preparation is complete.”

“Then why fear for my personal safety?” asked the millionaire. “I always have this—and I can use it,” and he drew from his pocket something which glistened in the darkness—a neat plated revolver.

“I fear, because of late you’ve acted so injudiciously.”

“Through ignorance. I believed myself to be more shrewd than I really am. You see I admit my failing to you, Levi. But only to you—to nobody else. The City believes Sam Statham to possess the keenest mind and sharpest wits of any man between Temple Bar and Aldgate. Strange, isn’t it, that each one of us earns a reputation for something in which really does not excel?”

“You excel in disbelieving everybody,” remarked Levi outspokenly. “If you believed that there was some little honesty in human nature you might have been spared the present danger.”

“You mean I’m too suspicious—eh? My experience of life has made me so,” he growled. “Of the thousand employees I possess, is there a man among them honest? And as for my friends, is there one I can trust—except Ben and yourself, of course?”

“What about Rolfe?”

Sam Statham hesitated. It was a question put too abruptly—a question not easily decided on the spur of the moment. Of course, ever since his failure to go to Belgrade, he had entertained some misgivings regarding his secretary. There was more than one point of fact which did not coincide with Rolfe’s statements. The old man was quickly suspicious, and when he scented mystery, it was always a long time before his doubts were allayed. Like every man of great wealth, he had been surrounded by sycophants, who had endeavoured to get rich at his expense. The very men he had helped to fortune had turned round afterwards and abused and libelled him. It was that which had long ago soured him against his fellow men, and aroused in his heart a disbelief in all protestation of honesty and uprightness.

Levi recognised his master’s lack of confidence in Rolfe, and it caused him to wonder. Hitherto he had been full of praise of the clever and energetic young secretary by whose smart business methods several great concerns in which he had controlling interest had been put into a flourishing condition. But now, quite of a sudden, there was a hesitancy which told too plainly of lack of confidence. Was the star of Rolfe’s prosperity on the wane?

If so, Levi felt sorry, for he was attached to the young man, whom he felt confident had the interests of his master thoroughly at heart. Old Levi was a queer fish. He had seldom taken to anybody as he had done to Mr Rolfe, who happily cracked a joke with him and asked after his rheumatics.

“Levi,” exclaimed Statham after a few moments of silence, “is it not absurd for us to chatter here, in the darkness? It’s past one. I wish you to go downstairs and leave me alone.”

“Why?” demanded the old retainer.

“Because I have a strong reason for opening the door myself. I—well I promised that my visitor should be seen by no one except myself. Now, do you understand?”

Levi did not answer for a few moments.

“Then in that case,” he said with reluctance, “I suppose I must do as you wish, only I’m very much against you opening the door yourself. You know that!”

And grunting, his dark figure moved along the hall, and he disappeared down the stairs, wishing his master “good-night.”

Statham, having listened to his retreating footsteps, re-entered the library, which was still unlit, and, going again to the window, peered forth into Park Lane.

Rain was falling, and the street-lamps cast long lines of light upon the shining pavements. In the faint ray of light that fell across the room from without he bent and looked at his watch. It was half-past one—the hour of the appointment.

The old fellow raised both hands to his head and smoothed back his grey hair. Then he drew a long sigh, and waited in patience, peering forth in eager expectancy.

For another ten minutes he remained almost motionless until at last his ear caught the sound of a footstep coming from the direction of Oxford Street, and a dark figure, passing the window, stopped beneath the porch.

Next second he flew along the hall to the door, opening it noiselessly to admit a woman in a black tailor-made gown and motor-cap, her features but half concealed by a thin veil of grey gauze.

She crossed the threshold without speaking, for he raised his finger as though to command her silence. Then, when he had closed the door behind her and slipped the bolt into its socket, he conducted her along to the dark study, without uttering a word.

Her attitude and gait was that of fear and hesitancy; as though she already regretted having come there, and would fain make her escape—if escape were possible.

Chapter Twenty Nine.In which Marion is Indiscreet.On entering, old Statham switched on the electric light quietly, the soft glow revealing the pale countenance of his guest.The blanched face, with its apprehensive, half-frightened expression, was that of Marion Rolfe.“Well,” he said in his thin, rather squeaky voice, after he had closed the door behind her and drawn forward a chair, “you have at last summoned courage to come—eh?” He smiled at her triumphantly. “Why have you refused my invitation so many times? My house, I know, bears a reputation for mystery, but I am no ogre, I assure you, Miss Rolfe.”“Whispers have come back to me that I am believed by some to be a modern Blue Beard, or by others a kind of seducer; but I trust you will disbelieve the wild rumours put out by my enemies, and regard me as your friend.”She had sunk into the soft depths of the green silk upholstered chair, and, with her motor-veil thrown back, was gazing at the old man, half in fear, half in wonder. To his words she made no response.“I hope the car I sent came for you as arranged?” he said, at once changing the subject.“Yes. The man arrived punctually,” she answered at last. “But—”“But what?”“I ought never to have come here,” she declared uneasily. “I will have to go before Mr Cunnington to-morrow for being absent all night, and shall certainly be discharged. He will never hear excuse in any case. Instant dismissal is the hard and fast rule.”“Not in your case, Miss Rolfe,” replied the old millionaire. “Remember that it is not Mr Cunnington who controls Cunnington’s, Limited. I have asked you here in order to speak to you in strictest confidence. Indeed, I want to take you into my confidence, if you’ll allow me. Perhaps you will be absent from Oxford Street a week—perhaps a month. But when you return you will not find the vacancy filled.” His cold eyes were fixed upon hers. She found a strange fascination in the old man’s glance, for he seemed to fix her and hold her immovable. Now, for the first time she experienced what Charlie had so often told her, namely, that Samuel Statham could, when he so desired, exercise an extraordinary power over his fellow men.“Absent a month?” she echoed, staring at him. “What do you mean?”“What I say. The car is awaiting you at the Marble Arch, isn’t it?”“I suppose so. The chauffeur put me down there—at your orders, I believe.”“I told you to put on a thick coat and motor-veil. I see you have done as I wished. I want you to go on a long journey.” She looked at the grey, immovable face before her in sheer astonishment. To this man both her brother Charlie and she herself owed their present happiness. And yet he was a man of millions and of mystery. Charlie had always been reticent regarding the strange tales concerning the house in which she now found herself, a visitor there under compulsion. Max, on the other hand, had often expressed wonder whether or not there was really any substratum of truth.As she sat there she recollected how, only a fortnight before, Max had told her the latest queer story regarding the mysterious mansion and its eccentric owner. What would he say if he knew that she had dared to go alone there—that she was seated in the old man’s private room?Dared! If the truth were told, Sam Statham had written to her fully half-a-dozen times, asking her to call upon him in secret in the evening when her brother would have left, as he wished to speak with her. Each time she had replied making excuses, for within herself she could not imagine upon what business he wished to see her. She had only met him once, on the day her brother took her to the City and asked his master to secure her a berth at Cunnington’s. The interview only lasted five minutes, and the impression he left upon her was that of a peevish, snappy old man who held all women in abhorrence.“Very well, very well, Rolfe,” he had replied impatiently, “I’ll write to Cunnington’s about your sister. Remind me to-morrow.” Then, turning to her, he had wished her a hasty good-bye, and resumed his writing. He had hardly taken the trouble to look at her.Now, for the first time, he was gazing straight into her face, and she thought she detected in his eyes an expression of sadness, combined with kindliness. An expert in the reading of character, however, would have noticed beneath that assumed kindliness was an expression of triumph. He had brought her there against her will. She was there at his bidding, merely because she dare not offend the man to whom both Charlie and herself owed their daily bread.For a long time she had held out against all his strongly-expressed desires to see her. His letters had been placed in her hand by a special messenger, and Mr Warner, “the buyer,” had on two occasions witnessed their delivery, and wondered who might be his assistant’s correspondent. He never dreamed that it was Samuel Statham, the man who held the controlling interest in the huge concern.The writer of those letters particularly requested her not to mention the matter to her brother, therefore she more than once thought of consulting Max. But Statham’s instructions was that she should regard the matter as confidential so she had refrained, and at the same time had met all his invitations with steady excuses.At last on the previous day came a tersely worded note, which made it plain that the millionaire would brook no refusal. She was to purchase a motor-cap and veil, and, wearing them, was, at an hour he appointed, to meet a dark red motor car that would be awaiting her at Addison Road station. In it she was to drive back to the Marble Arch, where he was to alight and walk along Park Lane direct to the house, where he himself would admit her in secret. The writer added that she was to ask no questions, and that no reply was needed. He would be expecting her.And so she had come there in utter ignorance of his motive for inviting her, and as she sat before him she became filled with apprehension. Hers was, she knew, an adventure of which neither Charlie nor Max would approve.The clever old man read the girl’s mind like an open book, and at once sought to allay her misgivings.“I see,” he said, smiling, “that you are not altogether at your ease. You’re afraid of what people might say—eh? Your fellow-assistants wouldn’t approve of you coming to see me at this hour, I suppose. Yes,” he laughed. “What is considered discreditable among the middle classes is deemed quite admissible in society. But who need know unless you yourself tell them?”“It will be known to-morrow morning that I was absent,” she said.“Leave that to me. Only one person will know—Cunnington himself. So make your mind quite easy upon that point, my dear young lady. I can quite understand your hesitation in coming here. It is, of course, only natural. But you must remember in what high esteem I held your father, and how for the sake of his memory I have taken your brother into my service.”“Before we go further, Mr Statham,” exclaimed the girl, “I would like to take this opportunity of thanking you for all you’ve done for both of us. Had it not been for your generosity I’m sure Charlie would never have been in such a position.”“Ah! you’re very fond of your brother, eh?” he asked in his quick, brusque way, leaning back in his armchair and placing his hands together.“Yes. He is so very good to me.”“And you probably know something of his affairs?”“Very little. He doesn’t tell me much.”“He talks of me sometimes, I suppose?” remarked the old man with a good-humoured smile.“With the greatest admiration always, Mr Statham. He is devoted to you,” she declared.The old man moved uneasily, and gave a sniff of suspicion combined with a low grunt of satisfaction.“He’s engaged to some foreign woman, I hear,” he said. “You know her, of course.”“You mean Maud Petrovitch. Yes, she is my friend.”“Petrovitch—Petrovitch,” he repeated, as though in ignorance of the fact. “I’ve heard that name before. Sounds like a Russian name.”“Servian. She is the daughter of Doctor Petrovitch, the well-known Servian statesman.”“Of course. I recollect now. He’s been in the Ministry once or twice. I recollect having some dealings with him over the Servian Loan. He was Finance Minister then. And so he is in love with her!” he said, reflectively. “If I remember aright, she’s the only daughter. His Excellency invited me to dine at his house in Belgrade one night a few years ago, and I saw her—a very pretty, dark-haired girl; she looked more French than Servian.”“Her mother was English.”“Ah!”And a dead silence fell, broken only by the low tinkle of a cab-bell outside.“So your brother is in love with the pretty daughter of the ex-Minister! What a happy circumstance is youth!” sighed the old man. “And you yourself?” he went on, staring straight at her. “You have a lover also! How can I ask? Of course, a beautiful girl like you must have a lover.”Marion blushed deeply—dropping her eyes from his. She was annoyed that he should make such an outspoken comment, and yet she forgave him, knowing full well what an eccentric person he was.The truth was that the old man now, for the first time, realised how extremely good-looking was the sister of his secretary. He had been told so by Mr Cunnington on one occasion, but he had heard without paying attention. Yet as he now sat with his gaze fastened upon her he saw how uneasy she was, and how anxious to escape from his presence.This rather piqued him. He had a suspicion that her brother might have said something to prejudice him in her estimation; therefore he exerted all his efforts to place her at her ease—efforts which, alas! had but little avail. The silence of that sombre but gorgeous room, the weird mystery of the house itself, and the thin-faced man of millions himself all combined to fill her with some instinctive dread. Alone there at that hour, she felt herself completely in that man’s power.Only three days before she had read a paragraph in “M.A.P.” regarding his enormous wealth and his far-reaching power and influence. The writer said that Samuel Statham was a man who seldom smiled, and whose own secretary scarcely knew him, so aloof did he hold himself from the world. And it was added that he, possessor of millions, preferred hot baked potatoes on a winter’s night to the finest dishes which a French chef could contrive.He was a man of simplest tastes, yet strangely erratic in his movements; a man whose foresight in business matters was little short of miraculous, and whose very touch seemed to turn dross to gold. He had declined half-a-dozen invitations to meet royalty at royalty’s express wish, and when offered a peerage by the Prime Minister before the late Government went out of office he had respectfully declined the preferred honour. Sam Statham sneered at society, and turned a cold shoulder to it—a fact which caused society to be all the more eager to know him.Marion recollected every word of this as she sat in wonder at the actual motive of her visit. Her eyes wandered around the fine room with its beautiful pictures, its priceless pieces of statuary, and its great Chinese vases that were loot from the Summer Palace at Pekin. The air of wealth and luxury impressed her, while even the arrangement of the electric lights, placed out of sight behind the book-cases and reflected into the centre of the apartment, was so cunningly devised that the illumination was bright without being glaring.“And so you have a lover in secret—eh?” he laughed, leaning back and regarding her with half-closed eyes. “Like every other girl, you dream of marriage and happiness—a shadowy dream, I can assure you. Happiness is as tangible as the moonbeams, and love as fleeting as the sunset. But you are young, and will disbelieve me. I don’t ask you to heed me, indeed, for I am old and world-weary and soured of life. I only urge upon you to pause, and think deeply, very deeply and earnestly, before you plight your troth to any man. Most men are unworthy, and all men are liars.”Had he brought her there at that unusual hour to deliver a discourse upon the perils of affection?She sat listening to him without uttering a word. But she thought of Max—her Max, who loved her so dearly and so well—and she laughed within herself at the old man’s well-meant warnings.His words were those of a man whose happiness had been wrecked by some woman, vain and worthless.Why had he insisted that she should visit him in secret? To her, his motive was a complete enigma, rendered the more complicated by his vigorous denunciation of affection, and all that appertained to it.

On entering, old Statham switched on the electric light quietly, the soft glow revealing the pale countenance of his guest.

The blanched face, with its apprehensive, half-frightened expression, was that of Marion Rolfe.

“Well,” he said in his thin, rather squeaky voice, after he had closed the door behind her and drawn forward a chair, “you have at last summoned courage to come—eh?” He smiled at her triumphantly. “Why have you refused my invitation so many times? My house, I know, bears a reputation for mystery, but I am no ogre, I assure you, Miss Rolfe.”

“Whispers have come back to me that I am believed by some to be a modern Blue Beard, or by others a kind of seducer; but I trust you will disbelieve the wild rumours put out by my enemies, and regard me as your friend.”

She had sunk into the soft depths of the green silk upholstered chair, and, with her motor-veil thrown back, was gazing at the old man, half in fear, half in wonder. To his words she made no response.

“I hope the car I sent came for you as arranged?” he said, at once changing the subject.

“Yes. The man arrived punctually,” she answered at last. “But—”

“But what?”

“I ought never to have come here,” she declared uneasily. “I will have to go before Mr Cunnington to-morrow for being absent all night, and shall certainly be discharged. He will never hear excuse in any case. Instant dismissal is the hard and fast rule.”

“Not in your case, Miss Rolfe,” replied the old millionaire. “Remember that it is not Mr Cunnington who controls Cunnington’s, Limited. I have asked you here in order to speak to you in strictest confidence. Indeed, I want to take you into my confidence, if you’ll allow me. Perhaps you will be absent from Oxford Street a week—perhaps a month. But when you return you will not find the vacancy filled.” His cold eyes were fixed upon hers. She found a strange fascination in the old man’s glance, for he seemed to fix her and hold her immovable. Now, for the first time she experienced what Charlie had so often told her, namely, that Samuel Statham could, when he so desired, exercise an extraordinary power over his fellow men.

“Absent a month?” she echoed, staring at him. “What do you mean?”

“What I say. The car is awaiting you at the Marble Arch, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so. The chauffeur put me down there—at your orders, I believe.”

“I told you to put on a thick coat and motor-veil. I see you have done as I wished. I want you to go on a long journey.” She looked at the grey, immovable face before her in sheer astonishment. To this man both her brother Charlie and she herself owed their present happiness. And yet he was a man of millions and of mystery. Charlie had always been reticent regarding the strange tales concerning the house in which she now found herself, a visitor there under compulsion. Max, on the other hand, had often expressed wonder whether or not there was really any substratum of truth.

As she sat there she recollected how, only a fortnight before, Max had told her the latest queer story regarding the mysterious mansion and its eccentric owner. What would he say if he knew that she had dared to go alone there—that she was seated in the old man’s private room?

Dared! If the truth were told, Sam Statham had written to her fully half-a-dozen times, asking her to call upon him in secret in the evening when her brother would have left, as he wished to speak with her. Each time she had replied making excuses, for within herself she could not imagine upon what business he wished to see her. She had only met him once, on the day her brother took her to the City and asked his master to secure her a berth at Cunnington’s. The interview only lasted five minutes, and the impression he left upon her was that of a peevish, snappy old man who held all women in abhorrence.

“Very well, very well, Rolfe,” he had replied impatiently, “I’ll write to Cunnington’s about your sister. Remind me to-morrow.” Then, turning to her, he had wished her a hasty good-bye, and resumed his writing. He had hardly taken the trouble to look at her.

Now, for the first time, he was gazing straight into her face, and she thought she detected in his eyes an expression of sadness, combined with kindliness. An expert in the reading of character, however, would have noticed beneath that assumed kindliness was an expression of triumph. He had brought her there against her will. She was there at his bidding, merely because she dare not offend the man to whom both Charlie and herself owed their daily bread.

For a long time she had held out against all his strongly-expressed desires to see her. His letters had been placed in her hand by a special messenger, and Mr Warner, “the buyer,” had on two occasions witnessed their delivery, and wondered who might be his assistant’s correspondent. He never dreamed that it was Samuel Statham, the man who held the controlling interest in the huge concern.

The writer of those letters particularly requested her not to mention the matter to her brother, therefore she more than once thought of consulting Max. But Statham’s instructions was that she should regard the matter as confidential so she had refrained, and at the same time had met all his invitations with steady excuses.

At last on the previous day came a tersely worded note, which made it plain that the millionaire would brook no refusal. She was to purchase a motor-cap and veil, and, wearing them, was, at an hour he appointed, to meet a dark red motor car that would be awaiting her at Addison Road station. In it she was to drive back to the Marble Arch, where he was to alight and walk along Park Lane direct to the house, where he himself would admit her in secret. The writer added that she was to ask no questions, and that no reply was needed. He would be expecting her.

And so she had come there in utter ignorance of his motive for inviting her, and as she sat before him she became filled with apprehension. Hers was, she knew, an adventure of which neither Charlie nor Max would approve.

The clever old man read the girl’s mind like an open book, and at once sought to allay her misgivings.

“I see,” he said, smiling, “that you are not altogether at your ease. You’re afraid of what people might say—eh? Your fellow-assistants wouldn’t approve of you coming to see me at this hour, I suppose. Yes,” he laughed. “What is considered discreditable among the middle classes is deemed quite admissible in society. But who need know unless you yourself tell them?”

“It will be known to-morrow morning that I was absent,” she said.

“Leave that to me. Only one person will know—Cunnington himself. So make your mind quite easy upon that point, my dear young lady. I can quite understand your hesitation in coming here. It is, of course, only natural. But you must remember in what high esteem I held your father, and how for the sake of his memory I have taken your brother into my service.”

“Before we go further, Mr Statham,” exclaimed the girl, “I would like to take this opportunity of thanking you for all you’ve done for both of us. Had it not been for your generosity I’m sure Charlie would never have been in such a position.”

“Ah! you’re very fond of your brother, eh?” he asked in his quick, brusque way, leaning back in his armchair and placing his hands together.

“Yes. He is so very good to me.”

“And you probably know something of his affairs?”

“Very little. He doesn’t tell me much.”

“He talks of me sometimes, I suppose?” remarked the old man with a good-humoured smile.

“With the greatest admiration always, Mr Statham. He is devoted to you,” she declared.

The old man moved uneasily, and gave a sniff of suspicion combined with a low grunt of satisfaction.

“He’s engaged to some foreign woman, I hear,” he said. “You know her, of course.”

“You mean Maud Petrovitch. Yes, she is my friend.”

“Petrovitch—Petrovitch,” he repeated, as though in ignorance of the fact. “I’ve heard that name before. Sounds like a Russian name.”

“Servian. She is the daughter of Doctor Petrovitch, the well-known Servian statesman.”

“Of course. I recollect now. He’s been in the Ministry once or twice. I recollect having some dealings with him over the Servian Loan. He was Finance Minister then. And so he is in love with her!” he said, reflectively. “If I remember aright, she’s the only daughter. His Excellency invited me to dine at his house in Belgrade one night a few years ago, and I saw her—a very pretty, dark-haired girl; she looked more French than Servian.”

“Her mother was English.”

“Ah!”

And a dead silence fell, broken only by the low tinkle of a cab-bell outside.

“So your brother is in love with the pretty daughter of the ex-Minister! What a happy circumstance is youth!” sighed the old man. “And you yourself?” he went on, staring straight at her. “You have a lover also! How can I ask? Of course, a beautiful girl like you must have a lover.”

Marion blushed deeply—dropping her eyes from his. She was annoyed that he should make such an outspoken comment, and yet she forgave him, knowing full well what an eccentric person he was.

The truth was that the old man now, for the first time, realised how extremely good-looking was the sister of his secretary. He had been told so by Mr Cunnington on one occasion, but he had heard without paying attention. Yet as he now sat with his gaze fastened upon her he saw how uneasy she was, and how anxious to escape from his presence.

This rather piqued him. He had a suspicion that her brother might have said something to prejudice him in her estimation; therefore he exerted all his efforts to place her at her ease—efforts which, alas! had but little avail. The silence of that sombre but gorgeous room, the weird mystery of the house itself, and the thin-faced man of millions himself all combined to fill her with some instinctive dread. Alone there at that hour, she felt herself completely in that man’s power.

Only three days before she had read a paragraph in “M.A.P.” regarding his enormous wealth and his far-reaching power and influence. The writer said that Samuel Statham was a man who seldom smiled, and whose own secretary scarcely knew him, so aloof did he hold himself from the world. And it was added that he, possessor of millions, preferred hot baked potatoes on a winter’s night to the finest dishes which a French chef could contrive.

He was a man of simplest tastes, yet strangely erratic in his movements; a man whose foresight in business matters was little short of miraculous, and whose very touch seemed to turn dross to gold. He had declined half-a-dozen invitations to meet royalty at royalty’s express wish, and when offered a peerage by the Prime Minister before the late Government went out of office he had respectfully declined the preferred honour. Sam Statham sneered at society, and turned a cold shoulder to it—a fact which caused society to be all the more eager to know him.

Marion recollected every word of this as she sat in wonder at the actual motive of her visit. Her eyes wandered around the fine room with its beautiful pictures, its priceless pieces of statuary, and its great Chinese vases that were loot from the Summer Palace at Pekin. The air of wealth and luxury impressed her, while even the arrangement of the electric lights, placed out of sight behind the book-cases and reflected into the centre of the apartment, was so cunningly devised that the illumination was bright without being glaring.

“And so you have a lover in secret—eh?” he laughed, leaning back and regarding her with half-closed eyes. “Like every other girl, you dream of marriage and happiness—a shadowy dream, I can assure you. Happiness is as tangible as the moonbeams, and love as fleeting as the sunset. But you are young, and will disbelieve me. I don’t ask you to heed me, indeed, for I am old and world-weary and soured of life. I only urge upon you to pause, and think deeply, very deeply and earnestly, before you plight your troth to any man. Most men are unworthy, and all men are liars.”

Had he brought her there at that unusual hour to deliver a discourse upon the perils of affection?

She sat listening to him without uttering a word. But she thought of Max—her Max, who loved her so dearly and so well—and she laughed within herself at the old man’s well-meant warnings.

His words were those of a man whose happiness had been wrecked by some woman, vain and worthless.

Why had he insisted that she should visit him in secret? To her, his motive was a complete enigma, rendered the more complicated by his vigorous denunciation of affection, and all that appertained to it.

Chapter Thirty.The Spider’s Parlour.“What you have told me, Miss Rolfe, concerning your brother’s engagement, interests me greatly,” the old fellow said at last. “He is entirely in my confidence, and a most valuable assistant, therefore I, naturally, am very anxious that he should not make an unhappy marriage.”“I—I hope that you will not say that I have told you,” exclaimed the girl quickly. “I know I ought not to—”“Whatever is said between us in this room, Miss Rolfe, is said in strictest confidence,” the millionaire declared. “I have a good many secrets in my keeping, you know. Therefore rest assured that whatever you tell me goes no further.”“You are against his marriage,” she suggested, looking him boldly in the face.“I have not said so. I am only seeking information abort the lady—Maud Petrovitch, I think you said was her name?”“Whatever I can tell you is only in her favour. She was a dear—a very dear friend of mine.”“Ah! then you have quarrelled—eh?” he said, looking at her sharply.“You said she was your friend—you used the past tense.”“I know.”“Why?”“Because,”—and she grew confused—“well, because something has happened.”“To interrupt pure friendship?”She did not reply. He had craftily led up the conversation to Maud, and was, as he had openly told her, seeking information. He watched the flush upon her cheeks, and the nervous manner in which she picked at her skirt.“And yet, though you are friends no longer, you are in favour of your brother’s marriage with the lady? That appears strange. I suppose he loves her. Every man loves at his age, and lives to regret it at forty,” he added with that touch of biting sarcasm that was never absolutely absent from his remarks.“Yes; Charlie does love her. I’m convinced of that. And her devotion to him has always been very marked, from the first time they were introduced at Aix-les-Bains. She has told me how deep is her affection for him.”“At Aix-les-Bains,” Statham exclaimed in surprise: “I thought Doctor Petrovitch lived in London?”“And so he did—until recently.”“Where is he now? I would much like to meet him again.”“I do not know. He left London suddenly with his daughter.”“Your brother would know, of course.”“No. He also is unaware of their present whereabouts,” she answered quickly, adding: “Recollect your promise not to mention the matter to him.”“When I make a promise, Miss Rolfe, I keep it,” was his grave response. “Only forgive me for saying so, but you appear to be a little evasive regarding the Doctor’s daughter.”“Evasive?” she echoed. “I don’t understand you, Mr Statham.”“Well, you are trying to mislead me,” he answered, knitting his brows and looking her straight in the face. “And let me say that when you try to mislead Sam Statham you have a difficult task.”She started at his sudden change of manner, and again became confused.“Now,” he said, bending forward to her from his chair, “let us understand each other at the outset. You were the most intimate friend of this girl Maud who, with her father, suddenly disappeared from London. The facts of their disappearance are already known to me, I may as well tell you that much. They vanished, and took their household goods with them. Perhaps they were afraid of anarchists or political enemies, or perhaps the Doctor is wanted by the police. Who knows? It was a mystery, and as such remains, is not that so?”She nodded. This knowledge of his astounded her. She had believed that the disappearance was only known to the two or three persons who had been the Petrovitchs’ personal friends. She little dreamed of the many spies in the pay of the great financier, men and women who reported to him any political move at home or abroad which might influence the markets. The world had often believed that Sam Statham was omnipresent. They knew nothing of his agents, or of their secret visits.“Now, Miss Rolfe, let us advance one step further,” the old man said, still keeping his keen gaze upon hers. “If you will kindly carry your mind back to the day of their disappearance, you will remember that you accompanied the Doctor’s daughter to a concert at Queen’s Hall.”“How do you know that?” she cried, starting up from her chair.“How I know it is immaterial,” he said firmly. “Kindly re-seat yourself.”“I will not,” she declared boldly. “You are cross-examining me as though I were a criminal. This is outrageous!”“I politely request you to sit down, Miss Rolfe,” he said, never moving a muscle.Her beautiful face was flushed with resentment and anger, as, standing erect before him, she faced him in open defiance.“I see no further point in this interview,” was her cool reply. “I will go.”“I think it would be wiser for you to remain,” he responded in a low, determined voice; “wiser for you to answer my questions.”“I have already answered them.”“I wish to know something further,” he said, stirring again in his chair, and waving his hand with a repeated request that she would be re-seated.“I have nothing to conceal,” was her reply, attempting to smile. “Why should I?”“Why, indeed,” he said, “I may as well tell you that I have reasons—very strong business reasons—for elucidating this mystery concerning Doctor Petrovitch. To me it involves a question of many thousands of pounds. I have considerable interests out in Servia, as your brother may have explained to you. I must find the Doctor, and the reason I have asked you here to-night is to invoke your aid in assisting me to do so. Can I be more explicit?”He looked in her face, but a shrewd observer would have known by the wavering smile at the corners of his mouth that he was not speaking the exact truth. There was some trick or motive underlying it all.Though she did not detect this, she was still undecided. Anger was aroused within her by his commanding manner. His attitude had changed so suddenly that she had been taken thoroughly aback.“I am afraid, Mr Statham, that I cannot render you any assistance in discovering the whereabouts of the Petrovitchs.”“But, my dear young lady!” he cried. “They had servants. Surely there is one who could give us some very valuable information.”“Perhaps so, if he or she could be found,” she remarked. “They, no doubt, took every precaution against being followed. As a matter of fact, so great a care has the Doctor taken that his most intimate friend in London is in ignorance.”“And who is he, pray?” asked the millionaire quickly.“A gentleman named Barclay—Mr Max Barclay.”“Max Barclay! I’ve heard of him. A friend of your brother’s, eh? And so he was the Doctor’s friend?”“They were inseparable, but the Doctor left without a word of farewell.”“And also the daughter—except to you, Miss Rolfe,” he said, looking at her meaningly.“To me?”“Yes,” he went on, his keen gaze again upon her. “It is useless to assume ignorance. You know quite well that the doctor’s daughter, on the night of their disappearance, made a statement to you—an important statement.”“My brother told you that!” she cried. “He has told you everything!”“He has told me nothing,” replied the old man coldly. “I only ask whether you deny that she made a statement.”The girl hesitated.“She certainly spoke to me,” she admitted at last. “I was her most intimate friend, and it was only natural perhaps that she told me what was most uppermost in her mind.”“And what was that?”“I regret,” she replied, “that I cannot repeat it; Mr Statham.”“What! You refuse to say anything?”“Under compulsion—yes,” was her firm answer. “I did not know,” she added, “that you had invited me here to ply me with questions in this manner.”“Or you would not have come, eh?” he laughed. “Well, my dear young lady, you apparently don’t quite realise how very important it is to me to discover Doctor Petrovitch. I have asked you here in order to beg a favour of you. I may be rough and matter-of-fact, but I trust you will pardon my apparent rudeness.”“There is nothing to forgive, Mr Statham,” was her quiet, dignified response. “My reply, quite brief and at the same time unalterable, is that I have nothing to say.”“You mean you refuse to tell me?”She nodded.He thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his old grey trousers, and stared down at the carpet. Marion Rolfe was more difficult to question than he had anticipated. She possessed the same firm, resolute nature of her father and her brother. That Maud Petrovitch had made a statement to her which possessed a most important bearing upon the serious interests involved, he was absolutely certain. Ever since the day following the strange disappearance, certain secret agents of his had been at work, but they had discovered next to nothing. Marion Rolfe alone was in possession of the actual facts. He knew that full well, and was therefore determined that she should be compelled to speak and explain.“I wish, Miss Rolfe, that I could impress upon you the extreme importance of this matter to myself personally,” he said, assuming an air quite conciliatory in the hope that he might induce her to reveal the truth. “I have begged of you to assist me in a very difficult task—one which, if I fail in accomplishing, will mean an enormous financial revenue. Your brother is in my service, while you yourself are also indirectly in my service,” he added; “and if, as result of your information, I am able to discover the Doctor, I need not tell you that I shall mark your services in an appreciable manner.”“You have already been very generous to us both, Mr Statham, but I think you cannot know much of me if you believe that for sake of reward I will betray the Doctor,” was her dignified answer.“It is not a question of betrayal,” he hastened to reassure her. “It is to his own interest as well as to mine that we should meet. If we do not, it will mean ruin to him.”“And if he is dead?” suggested Marion.“My own belief is that he is not dead,” was the millionaire’s reply. “I know more of him and of his past than you imagine. There is every reason why he should live.”“And Maud—what of her?”He shrugged his shoulders, and replied:“As regards her—you know best. She told you the truth.”“Yes—and which I will not repeat.”“Oh! but, my dear young lady, you must! Why waste time like this? Every day, nay every hour, causes the affair to assume increased gravity. I would have gone to the police long ago, only such a course would have brought the Doctor into a criminal dock. I have his interests, as well as my own at heart.”“I have given my promise of secrecy, Mr Statham, and I will not betray it,” she repeated, again rising from her chair, anxious to leave the house.“You still refuse!” he cried starting to his feet also, and standing before her. “You still refuse—even to save yourself!”“To save myself!” she exclaimed. “I do not follow you, Mr Statham.”A sinister grin spread over his grey face.“You are perfectly free to leave this place, Miss Rolfe,” he said in a hard, meaning voice, “but first reflect what they will say at Cunnington’s regarding your visit here to-night!”“You—you will tell them!” she gasped, drawing back from him, pale as death as she realised, for the first time, how she had imperilled her good name, and how completely she was in his power. “I—I believed, Mr Statham, that you were an honourable man!”“Where a man’s life is concerned it is not a question of honour,” was his reply. “You refuse to assist me—and I refuse to assist you. That is all!”

“What you have told me, Miss Rolfe, concerning your brother’s engagement, interests me greatly,” the old fellow said at last. “He is entirely in my confidence, and a most valuable assistant, therefore I, naturally, am very anxious that he should not make an unhappy marriage.”

“I—I hope that you will not say that I have told you,” exclaimed the girl quickly. “I know I ought not to—”

“Whatever is said between us in this room, Miss Rolfe, is said in strictest confidence,” the millionaire declared. “I have a good many secrets in my keeping, you know. Therefore rest assured that whatever you tell me goes no further.”

“You are against his marriage,” she suggested, looking him boldly in the face.

“I have not said so. I am only seeking information abort the lady—Maud Petrovitch, I think you said was her name?”

“Whatever I can tell you is only in her favour. She was a dear—a very dear friend of mine.”

“Ah! then you have quarrelled—eh?” he said, looking at her sharply.

“You said she was your friend—you used the past tense.”

“I know.”

“Why?”

“Because,”—and she grew confused—“well, because something has happened.”

“To interrupt pure friendship?”

She did not reply. He had craftily led up the conversation to Maud, and was, as he had openly told her, seeking information. He watched the flush upon her cheeks, and the nervous manner in which she picked at her skirt.

“And yet, though you are friends no longer, you are in favour of your brother’s marriage with the lady? That appears strange. I suppose he loves her. Every man loves at his age, and lives to regret it at forty,” he added with that touch of biting sarcasm that was never absolutely absent from his remarks.

“Yes; Charlie does love her. I’m convinced of that. And her devotion to him has always been very marked, from the first time they were introduced at Aix-les-Bains. She has told me how deep is her affection for him.”

“At Aix-les-Bains,” Statham exclaimed in surprise: “I thought Doctor Petrovitch lived in London?”

“And so he did—until recently.”

“Where is he now? I would much like to meet him again.”

“I do not know. He left London suddenly with his daughter.”

“Your brother would know, of course.”

“No. He also is unaware of their present whereabouts,” she answered quickly, adding: “Recollect your promise not to mention the matter to him.”

“When I make a promise, Miss Rolfe, I keep it,” was his grave response. “Only forgive me for saying so, but you appear to be a little evasive regarding the Doctor’s daughter.”

“Evasive?” she echoed. “I don’t understand you, Mr Statham.”

“Well, you are trying to mislead me,” he answered, knitting his brows and looking her straight in the face. “And let me say that when you try to mislead Sam Statham you have a difficult task.”

She started at his sudden change of manner, and again became confused.

“Now,” he said, bending forward to her from his chair, “let us understand each other at the outset. You were the most intimate friend of this girl Maud who, with her father, suddenly disappeared from London. The facts of their disappearance are already known to me, I may as well tell you that much. They vanished, and took their household goods with them. Perhaps they were afraid of anarchists or political enemies, or perhaps the Doctor is wanted by the police. Who knows? It was a mystery, and as such remains, is not that so?”

She nodded. This knowledge of his astounded her. She had believed that the disappearance was only known to the two or three persons who had been the Petrovitchs’ personal friends. She little dreamed of the many spies in the pay of the great financier, men and women who reported to him any political move at home or abroad which might influence the markets. The world had often believed that Sam Statham was omnipresent. They knew nothing of his agents, or of their secret visits.

“Now, Miss Rolfe, let us advance one step further,” the old man said, still keeping his keen gaze upon hers. “If you will kindly carry your mind back to the day of their disappearance, you will remember that you accompanied the Doctor’s daughter to a concert at Queen’s Hall.”

“How do you know that?” she cried, starting up from her chair.

“How I know it is immaterial,” he said firmly. “Kindly re-seat yourself.”

“I will not,” she declared boldly. “You are cross-examining me as though I were a criminal. This is outrageous!”

“I politely request you to sit down, Miss Rolfe,” he said, never moving a muscle.

Her beautiful face was flushed with resentment and anger, as, standing erect before him, she faced him in open defiance.

“I see no further point in this interview,” was her cool reply. “I will go.”

“I think it would be wiser for you to remain,” he responded in a low, determined voice; “wiser for you to answer my questions.”

“I have already answered them.”

“I wish to know something further,” he said, stirring again in his chair, and waving his hand with a repeated request that she would be re-seated.

“I have nothing to conceal,” was her reply, attempting to smile. “Why should I?”

“Why, indeed,” he said, “I may as well tell you that I have reasons—very strong business reasons—for elucidating this mystery concerning Doctor Petrovitch. To me it involves a question of many thousands of pounds. I have considerable interests out in Servia, as your brother may have explained to you. I must find the Doctor, and the reason I have asked you here to-night is to invoke your aid in assisting me to do so. Can I be more explicit?”

He looked in her face, but a shrewd observer would have known by the wavering smile at the corners of his mouth that he was not speaking the exact truth. There was some trick or motive underlying it all.

Though she did not detect this, she was still undecided. Anger was aroused within her by his commanding manner. His attitude had changed so suddenly that she had been taken thoroughly aback.

“I am afraid, Mr Statham, that I cannot render you any assistance in discovering the whereabouts of the Petrovitchs.”

“But, my dear young lady!” he cried. “They had servants. Surely there is one who could give us some very valuable information.”

“Perhaps so, if he or she could be found,” she remarked. “They, no doubt, took every precaution against being followed. As a matter of fact, so great a care has the Doctor taken that his most intimate friend in London is in ignorance.”

“And who is he, pray?” asked the millionaire quickly.

“A gentleman named Barclay—Mr Max Barclay.”

“Max Barclay! I’ve heard of him. A friend of your brother’s, eh? And so he was the Doctor’s friend?”

“They were inseparable, but the Doctor left without a word of farewell.”

“And also the daughter—except to you, Miss Rolfe,” he said, looking at her meaningly.

“To me?”

“Yes,” he went on, his keen gaze again upon her. “It is useless to assume ignorance. You know quite well that the doctor’s daughter, on the night of their disappearance, made a statement to you—an important statement.”

“My brother told you that!” she cried. “He has told you everything!”

“He has told me nothing,” replied the old man coldly. “I only ask whether you deny that she made a statement.”

The girl hesitated.

“She certainly spoke to me,” she admitted at last. “I was her most intimate friend, and it was only natural perhaps that she told me what was most uppermost in her mind.”

“And what was that?”

“I regret,” she replied, “that I cannot repeat it; Mr Statham.”

“What! You refuse to say anything?”

“Under compulsion—yes,” was her firm answer. “I did not know,” she added, “that you had invited me here to ply me with questions in this manner.”

“Or you would not have come, eh?” he laughed. “Well, my dear young lady, you apparently don’t quite realise how very important it is to me to discover Doctor Petrovitch. I have asked you here in order to beg a favour of you. I may be rough and matter-of-fact, but I trust you will pardon my apparent rudeness.”

“There is nothing to forgive, Mr Statham,” was her quiet, dignified response. “My reply, quite brief and at the same time unalterable, is that I have nothing to say.”

“You mean you refuse to tell me?”

She nodded.

He thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his old grey trousers, and stared down at the carpet. Marion Rolfe was more difficult to question than he had anticipated. She possessed the same firm, resolute nature of her father and her brother. That Maud Petrovitch had made a statement to her which possessed a most important bearing upon the serious interests involved, he was absolutely certain. Ever since the day following the strange disappearance, certain secret agents of his had been at work, but they had discovered next to nothing. Marion Rolfe alone was in possession of the actual facts. He knew that full well, and was therefore determined that she should be compelled to speak and explain.

“I wish, Miss Rolfe, that I could impress upon you the extreme importance of this matter to myself personally,” he said, assuming an air quite conciliatory in the hope that he might induce her to reveal the truth. “I have begged of you to assist me in a very difficult task—one which, if I fail in accomplishing, will mean an enormous financial revenue. Your brother is in my service, while you yourself are also indirectly in my service,” he added; “and if, as result of your information, I am able to discover the Doctor, I need not tell you that I shall mark your services in an appreciable manner.”

“You have already been very generous to us both, Mr Statham, but I think you cannot know much of me if you believe that for sake of reward I will betray the Doctor,” was her dignified answer.

“It is not a question of betrayal,” he hastened to reassure her. “It is to his own interest as well as to mine that we should meet. If we do not, it will mean ruin to him.”

“And if he is dead?” suggested Marion.

“My own belief is that he is not dead,” was the millionaire’s reply. “I know more of him and of his past than you imagine. There is every reason why he should live.”

“And Maud—what of her?”

He shrugged his shoulders, and replied:

“As regards her—you know best. She told you the truth.”

“Yes—and which I will not repeat.”

“Oh! but, my dear young lady, you must! Why waste time like this? Every day, nay every hour, causes the affair to assume increased gravity. I would have gone to the police long ago, only such a course would have brought the Doctor into a criminal dock. I have his interests, as well as my own at heart.”

“I have given my promise of secrecy, Mr Statham, and I will not betray it,” she repeated, again rising from her chair, anxious to leave the house.

“You still refuse!” he cried starting to his feet also, and standing before her. “You still refuse—even to save yourself!”

“To save myself!” she exclaimed. “I do not follow you, Mr Statham.”

A sinister grin spread over his grey face.

“You are perfectly free to leave this place, Miss Rolfe,” he said in a hard, meaning voice, “but first reflect what they will say at Cunnington’s regarding your visit here to-night!”

“You—you will tell them!” she gasped, drawing back from him, pale as death as she realised, for the first time, how she had imperilled her good name, and how completely she was in his power. “I—I believed, Mr Statham, that you were an honourable man!”

“Where a man’s life is concerned it is not a question of honour,” was his reply. “You refuse to assist me—and I refuse to assist you. That is all!”

Chapter Thirty One.“His Name!”“Not a question of honour, Mr Statham!” she cried. “Is it not a question of my own honour!” and she stood before him, erect and defiant.“My dear young lady,” he laughed, “pray calm yourself. Let us discuss the matter quietly.”“There is nothing to discuss,” she exclaimed resentfully, looking straight into the old man’s grey face. “You have threatened to divulge the secret of my visit to you to-night if—if I refuse to betray my friend! Is such an action honourable? Does such a threat against a defenceless woman do you credit?” she asked.“You misunderstand me,” he hastened to assure her, realising the mistake he had made.“I understand that you ask me a question,” she said. “You wish me to repeat what was told to me in confidence—the secret imparted to me by the girl who was my beat friend!”“Yes; I wish to know what Maud Petrovitch told you,” he answered, standing with his thin hands behind his back.“Then I regret that I am unable to satisfy your curiosity,” was her firm response. “I now realise your motive in inviting me here at this hour to see you in secret. You meant me to compromise myself—to remain away from Cunnington’s and be punished for my absence—the punishment of dismissal,” she went on, her fine eyes flashing in anger at his dastardly tactics. “You know quite well, Mr Statham, that the world is only too ready to think ill of a woman! You anticipate that I will betray my friend, in order to save myself from calumny and dismissal from the service of the firm. But in that you are mistaken. No word shall pass my lips, and I wish you good-night,” she added with serve hauteur, moving towards the door.“No, Miss Rolfe!” he cried, quickly intercepting her. “Surely it is unnecessary to create this scene. I hate scenes. Life is really not worth them. You have denounced what you are pleased to call my ungentlemanly tactics. Well, I can only say in my defence that Samuel Statham, although he is not all that he might be, has never acted the blackguard towards a woman, and more especially, towards the daughter of his dear friend.”“You have told me that you will refuse to assist me further!” she said. “In other words, you decline to preserve the secret of my visit here, although you made a promise that my absence to-night from Cunnington’s should not be noted!”“I have given you a promise, Miss Rolfe, and I shall keep it,” was his quiet and serious response.She looked at him with distrust.“You have asked me a question, Mr Statham—one to which I am not permitted to reply,” she said.“Why not?”“Because—well, because I have made a vow to regard what was told me as strictly in confidence.”Sam Statham pursed his lips. Few were the secrets he could not learn when he set his mind upon learning them. In every capital in Europe he had his agents, who, at orders from him, set about to discover what he wished to know, whether it be a carefully-guarded diplomatic secret, or whether it concerned the love affair of some royal prince to whom he was making a loan. He knew as much of the internal affairs of various countries as their finance ministers did themselves, and with the private affairs of some of his clients he was as well acquainted as were their own valets.To the possession of sound but secret information much of the old man’s success was due. The mysterious men and women who so often came and went to that house all poured into his ear facts they had gathered—facts which he afterwards duly noted in the locked green-covered book which he kept in the security of his safe.Surely the contents of that book would, if published, have created a huge sensation; for there were noted there many ugly incidents in the lives of the men who were most prominent in Europe, together, be it said, with facts concerning them that were highly creditable, and sometimes counterbalanced the black pages in their history.And this man of many secrets stood there thwarted by a mere chit of a girl!He regarded her coldly with expressionless eyes. His gaze caused her to shudder. She withdrew from him with instinctive dislike. About this man of millions, whose touch turned everything to gold, there seemed to her something superhuman, something indescribably fearsome. His very gaze seemed to fascinate her, and yet at the same time she regarded him with distrust and horror. She was a fool, she told herself, ever to have listened to his appeal. She ought to have had sense enough to know that by bringing her there at that hour he had some sinister motive.His motive was to wring from her the words of Maud Petrovitch.Suddenly he altered his tactics, and, drawing her chair forward again, said:“Let us sit down and talk of something else. You look pale. May I offer you something?”“No, thank you,” she replied. It was true that his threatening words a few moments ago had upset her, therefore she was glad to be seated again. He evidently did not intend that she should leave yet.Having re-seated himself near his writing-table, he said: “As I explained, I want you, if you will, to go on a journey for me. The car is awaiting you round in Deanery Street.”“A journey? Is it far?”“That all depends—if you are prepared to render me this service,” he replied.“I am prepared to render you any service, Mr Statham, that is within my power, and my conscience permits me,” she said in a firm voice.“Ah, now, that’s better. We’re beginning to be friends. When you know me, you will not accuse me of ungentlemanly conduct—especially towards a woman. But,” he added with a laugh, “I’m a woman hater. I daresay you’ve heard that about me—eh?”She smiled also.“Well—yes. I’ve heard that you are not exactly a ladies’ man. But surely you are not alone in the world in that!”“If all men were like me, Miss Rolfe,” he said, “there wouldn’t be much work for the parsons in the matter of marrying.”“You’ve been unfortunate, perhaps, in your female acquaintances,” she ventured to suggest. His manner towards her had altered, therefore she was again perfectly at her ease.“Yes,” he sighed. “You have guessed correctly—unfortunate.”And then a dead silence fell, and Marion, watching his face, saw that he was reflecting deeply.Of a sudden, he looked straight into her face again, and said:“You have a lover, Miss Rolfe—and you are happy. Is not that so?”The girl blushed deeply at this unexpected statement. How could the old man possibly know, unless some of the people at Cunnington’s had carried tales to him. Perhaps Mr Warner had told Mr Cunnington, and he had spoken to the millionaire!“I see,” he laughed, “that I’ve spoken the truth. Max Barclay loves you, doesn’t he? He’s a friend of your brother’s. I know him, and allow me to congratulate you. He’s a thoroughly good fellow, and would be better if he’d keep off hazardous speculation.”She did not reply. The old man’s final sentence impressed her. Max’s speculations were hazardous. This was news to her.“You don’t deny that you love young Barclay, do you?” the old man demanded.She hesitated, her cheeks crimsoning.“Well, why should I?” she asked. “He is very good to me—very good, indeed.”“That’s right,” he said approvingly. “If I did not think him an honest, upright fellow I should warn you against him. Girls in your dependent position, you know, are too frequently victims of men whom the world call gentlemen. You know that, don’t you?”“Yes,” she answered in a low voice. She was impressed by his solicitude on her behalf. In his eyes was a kindly glance, and she began to declare within herself that she had misjudged him.“Well,” he went on, “when it came to my knowledge that Max Barclay was paying court to you, and that you were seen together of an evening and on Sundays, it gave me great satisfaction. I owe a debt of gratitude to your poor father, Miss Rolfe, and I am endeavouring to repay it to his children. Therefore I admit to you now that more than once I wondered what kind of lover would be yours. I anticipated annoyance, but, on the contrary, I have only the most complete satisfaction.”“I am sure, Mr Statham, it is very kind of you to say this. And surely it is very generous of you to take in interest in Charlie and myself.”“It is not a matter of kindness, but a matter of duty,” he said. “We were talking of Barclay. How did you meet him?”“Charlie introduced him to me one Sunday afternoon in the Park.”“And he has promised you marriage? Tell me frankly.” She nodded, again blushing deeply.“Then you have my very heartiest wishes for your future happiness,” he declared with a pleasant smile. “Mind I am told the date, so that I can send you the usual teapot!”Whereat they both laughed in chorus. The old man could be charming when he wished.“Oh! we shan’t be married for a long time yet, I suppose!” Marion exclaimed. “Max talks of going with a shooting party up the Zambesi next spring. They’ll be away a full year, I expect.”“And you’ll be left all alone?” he said in a tone of surprise. “No, I don’t think he’ll do that. He ought not to leave you alone at Cunnington’s.”“Oh, but he’s going out to Turkey now—in a few days I think. He has some financial business out there. Something which will bring him in a very big sum of money.”“Oh, what’s its nature?” asked the old financier, instantly pricking up his ears.“I believe it’s a concession from the Sultan for the construction of a railway from some place on the Servian frontier, across Northern Albania, down to San Giovanni di Medua—if I pronounce the name aright—on the Adriatic.”“What!” cried Statham, starting up. “Are you quite certain of this?”“Yes; why?” she asked, surprised at the sudden effect her words had produced upon him.“Well—well, because this is a surprise to me, Miss Rolfe,” he said. “Tell me the details, as far as you know them. Has he spoken to you about it?”“Yes. He is hesitating to go, not wishing to leave me.”“Of course. Did I not tell you so a moment ago?” he remarked with a smile. “But are you aware that this concession, if the Sultan really gives it, is of the greatest importance to the commercial development of the Near East? There are big interests involved, and correspondingly big profits. Curious that I have not heard anything of the scheme lately! It’s a dream that every Balkan statesman has had for the past fifteen years—the creating of an outlet for trade to the Adriatic; but the Sultan could never be induced to allow the line to run through his dominion. He is not too friendly with either Bulgaria or Servia. I thought I was being kept well informed of all the openings in Constantinople where British capital can be employed. Yet I haven’t heard anything of this long discussed scheme for quite a year.”“Your informants believe, perhaps, that it would not interest you?”“Interest me!” he echoed. “Why, they could not successfully carry it through in London without my aid—or, at least, without my consent. Whoever is getting the concession—if it is being obtained at all, which I very much doubt—knows full well that in the long run he must come to Sam Statham. Do you happen to know who, besides Barclay, is interested in the scheme?”“There is a French gentleman—a friend of Max’s—who wants him to go to Constantinople with him.”“What is his name? I may probably know him?”“Adam—Jean Adam.”“Jean Adam!” gasped the old man. “Jean Adam—a friend of Max Barclay?”“Yes,” she answered, staring at him. “Why?”“Why, girl!” he cried roughly. “Don’t ask me why? But tell me all about it—tell me at once!”

“Not a question of honour, Mr Statham!” she cried. “Is it not a question of my own honour!” and she stood before him, erect and defiant.

“My dear young lady,” he laughed, “pray calm yourself. Let us discuss the matter quietly.”

“There is nothing to discuss,” she exclaimed resentfully, looking straight into the old man’s grey face. “You have threatened to divulge the secret of my visit to you to-night if—if I refuse to betray my friend! Is such an action honourable? Does such a threat against a defenceless woman do you credit?” she asked.

“You misunderstand me,” he hastened to assure her, realising the mistake he had made.

“I understand that you ask me a question,” she said. “You wish me to repeat what was told to me in confidence—the secret imparted to me by the girl who was my beat friend!”

“Yes; I wish to know what Maud Petrovitch told you,” he answered, standing with his thin hands behind his back.

“Then I regret that I am unable to satisfy your curiosity,” was her firm response. “I now realise your motive in inviting me here at this hour to see you in secret. You meant me to compromise myself—to remain away from Cunnington’s and be punished for my absence—the punishment of dismissal,” she went on, her fine eyes flashing in anger at his dastardly tactics. “You know quite well, Mr Statham, that the world is only too ready to think ill of a woman! You anticipate that I will betray my friend, in order to save myself from calumny and dismissal from the service of the firm. But in that you are mistaken. No word shall pass my lips, and I wish you good-night,” she added with serve hauteur, moving towards the door.

“No, Miss Rolfe!” he cried, quickly intercepting her. “Surely it is unnecessary to create this scene. I hate scenes. Life is really not worth them. You have denounced what you are pleased to call my ungentlemanly tactics. Well, I can only say in my defence that Samuel Statham, although he is not all that he might be, has never acted the blackguard towards a woman, and more especially, towards the daughter of his dear friend.”

“You have told me that you will refuse to assist me further!” she said. “In other words, you decline to preserve the secret of my visit here, although you made a promise that my absence to-night from Cunnington’s should not be noted!”

“I have given you a promise, Miss Rolfe, and I shall keep it,” was his quiet and serious response.

She looked at him with distrust.

“You have asked me a question, Mr Statham—one to which I am not permitted to reply,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Because—well, because I have made a vow to regard what was told me as strictly in confidence.”

Sam Statham pursed his lips. Few were the secrets he could not learn when he set his mind upon learning them. In every capital in Europe he had his agents, who, at orders from him, set about to discover what he wished to know, whether it be a carefully-guarded diplomatic secret, or whether it concerned the love affair of some royal prince to whom he was making a loan. He knew as much of the internal affairs of various countries as their finance ministers did themselves, and with the private affairs of some of his clients he was as well acquainted as were their own valets.

To the possession of sound but secret information much of the old man’s success was due. The mysterious men and women who so often came and went to that house all poured into his ear facts they had gathered—facts which he afterwards duly noted in the locked green-covered book which he kept in the security of his safe.

Surely the contents of that book would, if published, have created a huge sensation; for there were noted there many ugly incidents in the lives of the men who were most prominent in Europe, together, be it said, with facts concerning them that were highly creditable, and sometimes counterbalanced the black pages in their history.

And this man of many secrets stood there thwarted by a mere chit of a girl!

He regarded her coldly with expressionless eyes. His gaze caused her to shudder. She withdrew from him with instinctive dislike. About this man of millions, whose touch turned everything to gold, there seemed to her something superhuman, something indescribably fearsome. His very gaze seemed to fascinate her, and yet at the same time she regarded him with distrust and horror. She was a fool, she told herself, ever to have listened to his appeal. She ought to have had sense enough to know that by bringing her there at that hour he had some sinister motive.

His motive was to wring from her the words of Maud Petrovitch.

Suddenly he altered his tactics, and, drawing her chair forward again, said:

“Let us sit down and talk of something else. You look pale. May I offer you something?”

“No, thank you,” she replied. It was true that his threatening words a few moments ago had upset her, therefore she was glad to be seated again. He evidently did not intend that she should leave yet.

Having re-seated himself near his writing-table, he said: “As I explained, I want you, if you will, to go on a journey for me. The car is awaiting you round in Deanery Street.”

“A journey? Is it far?”

“That all depends—if you are prepared to render me this service,” he replied.

“I am prepared to render you any service, Mr Statham, that is within my power, and my conscience permits me,” she said in a firm voice.

“Ah, now, that’s better. We’re beginning to be friends. When you know me, you will not accuse me of ungentlemanly conduct—especially towards a woman. But,” he added with a laugh, “I’m a woman hater. I daresay you’ve heard that about me—eh?”

She smiled also.

“Well—yes. I’ve heard that you are not exactly a ladies’ man. But surely you are not alone in the world in that!”

“If all men were like me, Miss Rolfe,” he said, “there wouldn’t be much work for the parsons in the matter of marrying.”

“You’ve been unfortunate, perhaps, in your female acquaintances,” she ventured to suggest. His manner towards her had altered, therefore she was again perfectly at her ease.

“Yes,” he sighed. “You have guessed correctly—unfortunate.”

And then a dead silence fell, and Marion, watching his face, saw that he was reflecting deeply.

Of a sudden, he looked straight into her face again, and said:

“You have a lover, Miss Rolfe—and you are happy. Is not that so?”

The girl blushed deeply at this unexpected statement. How could the old man possibly know, unless some of the people at Cunnington’s had carried tales to him. Perhaps Mr Warner had told Mr Cunnington, and he had spoken to the millionaire!

“I see,” he laughed, “that I’ve spoken the truth. Max Barclay loves you, doesn’t he? He’s a friend of your brother’s. I know him, and allow me to congratulate you. He’s a thoroughly good fellow, and would be better if he’d keep off hazardous speculation.”

She did not reply. The old man’s final sentence impressed her. Max’s speculations were hazardous. This was news to her.

“You don’t deny that you love young Barclay, do you?” the old man demanded.

She hesitated, her cheeks crimsoning.

“Well, why should I?” she asked. “He is very good to me—very good, indeed.”

“That’s right,” he said approvingly. “If I did not think him an honest, upright fellow I should warn you against him. Girls in your dependent position, you know, are too frequently victims of men whom the world call gentlemen. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she answered in a low voice. She was impressed by his solicitude on her behalf. In his eyes was a kindly glance, and she began to declare within herself that she had misjudged him.

“Well,” he went on, “when it came to my knowledge that Max Barclay was paying court to you, and that you were seen together of an evening and on Sundays, it gave me great satisfaction. I owe a debt of gratitude to your poor father, Miss Rolfe, and I am endeavouring to repay it to his children. Therefore I admit to you now that more than once I wondered what kind of lover would be yours. I anticipated annoyance, but, on the contrary, I have only the most complete satisfaction.”

“I am sure, Mr Statham, it is very kind of you to say this. And surely it is very generous of you to take in interest in Charlie and myself.”

“It is not a matter of kindness, but a matter of duty,” he said. “We were talking of Barclay. How did you meet him?”

“Charlie introduced him to me one Sunday afternoon in the Park.”

“And he has promised you marriage? Tell me frankly.” She nodded, again blushing deeply.

“Then you have my very heartiest wishes for your future happiness,” he declared with a pleasant smile. “Mind I am told the date, so that I can send you the usual teapot!”

Whereat they both laughed in chorus. The old man could be charming when he wished.

“Oh! we shan’t be married for a long time yet, I suppose!” Marion exclaimed. “Max talks of going with a shooting party up the Zambesi next spring. They’ll be away a full year, I expect.”

“And you’ll be left all alone?” he said in a tone of surprise. “No, I don’t think he’ll do that. He ought not to leave you alone at Cunnington’s.”

“Oh, but he’s going out to Turkey now—in a few days I think. He has some financial business out there. Something which will bring him in a very big sum of money.”

“Oh, what’s its nature?” asked the old financier, instantly pricking up his ears.

“I believe it’s a concession from the Sultan for the construction of a railway from some place on the Servian frontier, across Northern Albania, down to San Giovanni di Medua—if I pronounce the name aright—on the Adriatic.”

“What!” cried Statham, starting up. “Are you quite certain of this?”

“Yes; why?” she asked, surprised at the sudden effect her words had produced upon him.

“Well—well, because this is a surprise to me, Miss Rolfe,” he said. “Tell me the details, as far as you know them. Has he spoken to you about it?”

“Yes. He is hesitating to go, not wishing to leave me.”

“Of course. Did I not tell you so a moment ago?” he remarked with a smile. “But are you aware that this concession, if the Sultan really gives it, is of the greatest importance to the commercial development of the Near East? There are big interests involved, and correspondingly big profits. Curious that I have not heard anything of the scheme lately! It’s a dream that every Balkan statesman has had for the past fifteen years—the creating of an outlet for trade to the Adriatic; but the Sultan could never be induced to allow the line to run through his dominion. He is not too friendly with either Bulgaria or Servia. I thought I was being kept well informed of all the openings in Constantinople where British capital can be employed. Yet I haven’t heard anything of this long discussed scheme for quite a year.”

“Your informants believe, perhaps, that it would not interest you?”

“Interest me!” he echoed. “Why, they could not successfully carry it through in London without my aid—or, at least, without my consent. Whoever is getting the concession—if it is being obtained at all, which I very much doubt—knows full well that in the long run he must come to Sam Statham. Do you happen to know who, besides Barclay, is interested in the scheme?”

“There is a French gentleman—a friend of Max’s—who wants him to go to Constantinople with him.”

“What is his name? I may probably know him?”

“Adam—Jean Adam.”

“Jean Adam!” gasped the old man. “Jean Adam—a friend of Max Barclay?”

“Yes,” she answered, staring at him. “Why?”

“Why, girl!” he cried roughly. “Don’t ask me why? But tell me all about it—tell me at once!”

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