The Pauper of Park Lane

“No, except that Maud asked me not to visit there so often, as her father did not approve of it.”

“Did she ever tell you that the Doctor had suddenly entertained a dislike of you?”

“Certainly not. I always believed that he was very friendly disposed towards me. But – well – why do you ask all this?”

“I merely ask for information.”

“Of course, but you promised to tell me the reason.”

“Well, the fact is this. On the afternoon prior to their disappearance, the Doctor expressed feelings towards you that were not exactly friendly. It seemed to me that he had formed some extraordinary prejudice. Fathers do this often towards the men who love their daughters, you know. They are sometimes apt to be over-cautious, with the result that the girl loses a very good chance of marriage,” he added. “I’ve known several similar cases.”

“Well,” said Charlie thoughtfully, “that’s quite new to me. I had flattered myself that the Doctor was very well disposed towards me. This is quite a revelation?”

“Didn’t Maud ever tell you?”

“Not a word.”

“She feared, of course, to hurt your feelings. It was quite natural. She loves you.”

“If what we fear be true, you should put your words into the past tense, Max,” was his reply in a hard voice. Barclay knew that his friend loved the sweet-faced girl with the stray, unruly wisp of hair which fell always across her white brow and gave her such a piquante appearance. And if he loved her so well, was it possible that he could have been author of, or implicated, in a foul and secret crime?

Recollection of that dress-bodice with the ugly stain still wet upon it flashed upon him. Was it not in itself circumstantial evidence that some terrible crime had been committed?

The man before him denied all knowledge of the disappearance of his well-beloved, and yet Max, with his own eyes, had seen him slinking from the house!

Had he spoken the truth, or was he an ingenious liar?

Such was the problem which Max Barclay put to himself – a question which was the whole crux of the extraordinary situation. If what Rolfe had declared was the truth, then the mystery became an enigma beyond solution.

But if, on the other hand, he was now endeavouring to shield himself from the shadow of guilt upon him, then at least one fact was rendered more hideous than the rest.

The question was one – and only one.

Had this man, brother of his own dear Marion, sworn falsely upon what he had held to be most sacred – his love for Maud?

What was the real and actual truth?

Chapter Twenty Seven.

In the Web

It was four o’clock on the following afternoon, dark and threatening outside, precursory of a thunderstorm.

In that chair in Max’s room, where Charlie Rolfe had sat on the previous morning, was the polished cosmopolitan, Jean Adam, lazily lolling back, smoking a cigarette.

Max had lunched over at White’s, and just come in to find Adam awaiting him. The Frenchman had risen and greeted him merrily, took the proffered Russian cigarette, and they; had settled themselves to chat.

“I’ve been expecting every day to hear from you,” Adam exclaimed at last. “When do you propose starting for Constantinople?”

“Well, I’ve been thinking over the matter, and I’ve come to the conclusion that just at present it is impossible for me to leave London. I have other interests here.”

Adam stirred uneasily in his chair. This reply filled him with chagrin, yet so clever was he, and such a perfect type of ingenious adventurer, that he never showed the least trace of surprise.

“Really,” he laughed, “that’s very unfortunate – for you!”

“Why, for me?”

“Well, the missing of such a chance would be unfortunate, even to a Rothschild,” he said. “There’s hundreds of thousands in the deal, if you’ll only go out with me. You’re not a man of straw. You can afford to risk a thousand or two, just as well as I can – even better.”

“I would willingly go if it were not for the fact that I find I must remain in London.”

Adam laughed, with just a touch of sarcasm.

“Ah! the lady! I quite understand, my dear fellow. The charming young lady whom I met with you the other night does not wish you to leave her side – eh? We have all of us been through that stage of amorous ecstasy. I have myself, I know that; and if I may tell you with the frankness of a friend, I’ve regretted it,” he added, holding up his white palms.

“All men do not regret I hope to be the exception,” remarked Max Barclay, pensively watching the smoke from his lips rise to the ceiling.

“Of course. But is it wise to turn one’s back upon Fortune in this way?” asked Adam, in that insidious manner by which he had entrapped many a man. “Review the position calmly. Here is a project which, by good luck, has fallen into my hands. I want somebody to go shares with me in it. You are my friend, I like you. I know you are an upright man, and I ask you to become my partner in the venture. Yet you refuse to do so because – well, merely because a woman’s pretty face has attracted you, and you think that you please her by remaining here in London!

“Is it not rather foolish in your own interests? Constantinople is not the Pole. A fortnight will suffice for you to get there and back and clinch the bargain. Muhil is awaiting us. I had a wire only yesterday. Do reconsider the whole question – there’s a good fellow.”

Max had said nothing about the meeting with Marion. Therefore he believed that she had not told her lover. Adam was reflecting whether she might not, after all, be a woman to be trusted. This refusal of Max’s to go out to Turkey interfered seriously with the plans he had formed. Yet what those plans actually were he had not even told the hunchback. He was a man who took counsel of nobody. His ingenious schemes he evolved in his own brain, and carried them into effect by his own unaided efforts.

The past history of Jean Adam, alias John Adams, had been one of amazing ups-and-downs and clever chicanery. He knew that Samuel Statham held him in awe, and was now playing upon his fears, and gloating over the success which must inevitably be his whenever he thought fit to deal the blow. It would be irresistible and crushing. He held the millionaire in his power. But before he moved forward to strike, he intended that Max should be induced to go abroad. And if he went – well, when he thought of his victim’s departure his small, near-set eyes gleamed, and about the corners of his mouth there played an expression of evil.

“My decision does not require any reconsideration,” said the young fellow, after a pause. “I shall remain in London.”

“And lose the chance of a lifetime – eh?” exclaimed Adam, as though perfectly unconcerned.

“I have some very important private matters to attend to.”

“I, too, used to have when I was your age.”

“They do not concern the lady,” Max said quickly. “It is purely a personal matter.”

“Of business? Why, you’d make as much in an hour over this Railway business as you’d make in twenty years here in London,” Adam declared. “Besides, you want a change. Come out to the Bosphorus. It’s charming beside the Sweet Waters.”

“All sounds very delightful; but even though I may let the chance of a fortune slip through my fingers, I cannot leave London at present.”

“But why?”

“A purely private matter,” was his reply, for he did not wish to tell this man anything concerning the strange disappearance of the Doctor and his grave suspicions of Charlie Rolfe. “I can tell you nothing more than that.”

“Well, I’m sure the lady, if she knew that it was in your interests to go to Turkey, would urge you to go,” declared Adam. “She would never keep you here if she knew that you could pull off such a deal as I have put before you.”

“She does know.”

“Oh! And what does she say?”

“She suggested that I should go with you.”

“Then why not come?”

“Because, as I’ve already told you, it is impossible. I am kept in London by something which concerns the welfare of a very dear friend,” Max answered. “You must put it before somebody else. I suppose the affair cannot wait?”

“I don’t want to put it before anybody else. If we do business, I want you and I to share the profits.”

“Very good of you, I’m sure; but at present I am quite unable to leave London.”

Max was wondering for the first time why this man was so pressing. If the thing was a really good one – as it undoubtedly was, according to the friend he had consulted in the City – then there could not be any lack of persons ready to go into the venture. Was it sheer luck that had led this man Adam to offer to take him into it, or had the man some ulterior motive? Max Barclay was no fool. He had sown his wild oats in London, and knew the ways of men. He had met many a city shark, and had been the poorer in pocket through the meeting. But about this man Adam was something which had always fascinated him. The pair had been drawn together by some indescribable but mutual attraction, and the concession by the Sultan which must result in great profits was now within his reach. Nevertheless, he felt that in the present circumstances it was impossible to leave London. Before doing so he was desirous of solving the problem of the disappearance of Doctor Petrovitch, and clearing up the question of whether or not there had been foul play.

Rolfe’s denial of the previous day had complicated matters even further. He was convinced, now that he had reflected calmly, that his friend was concealing something from him – some fact which had an important bearing upon the astounding affair.

Was Charlie playing a straight game? After long consideration he had come again to the conclusion that he was not!

In his ear was the voice of the tempter Jean Adam. Fortune awaited him in that sunlit city of white domes and minarets beside the Bosphorus – the city of veiled women and of mystery he had always hoped to visit. Would he not spare fourteen days, travel there, and obtain it?

It was a great temptation. The concession for that railway would indeed have been a temptation to any man. Did not the late Baron Hirsch lay the foundation of his huge fortune by a similar iradé of his Majesty the Sultan?

The man seated in the deep armchair with the cigarette between his lips looked at his victim through his half-closed eyes, as a snake watches the bird he fascinates.

Jean Adam was an excellent judge of human nature. He had placed there a bait which could not fail to attract, if not to-day, then to-morrow – or the next day. He had gauged Max Barclay with a precision only given to those who live upon their wits.

To every rule there are, of course, exceptions. Every man who lives upon his wits is not altogether bad. Curious though it may be, there are many adventurers to be met with in every capital in Europe, who, though utterly unscrupulous, have in their nature one point of the most scrupulous honour – one point which redeems them from being classed as utter blackguards.

Many a man, who will stick at nothing where money can be made, is loyal, honest, and upright towards a woman; while another will with one hand swindle the wealthy, and with the other give charity to the poor. Few men, indeed, are altogether bad. Yet when they are, they are, alas! outsiders indeed.

Adam was a man who had no compunction where men were concerned, and very little when a woman stood in his way. His own adventures would have made one of the most interesting volumes ever written. Full of ingenuity and tact, fearless when it came to facing exposure, and light-hearted whenever the world smiled upon him, he was a marvellous admixture of good fellow and scoundrel.

He knew that his clever story had fascinated the man before him, and that it was only a question of time before he would fall into the net so cleverly spread.

“When do you anticipate you could go East – that is, providing I can get the matter postponed?” asked Adam at last, as he placed his cigarette end in the ash-tray.

“I can’t give you a date,” replied Max. “It is quite uncertain. Why not go to somebody else?”

“I tell you I have no desire to do so, my dear friend,” was the Frenchman’s reply. “I like you. That is why I placed the business before you. I know, of course, there are a thousand men in the City who would only jump at this chance of such a big thing.”

“Then why not go to them?” repeated Max, a little surprised and yet a little flattered.

“As I have told you, I would rather take you into partnership. We have already decided to do the thing on a sound business basis. Indeed, I went to my lawyers only yesterday and gave orders for the agreement to be drawn up between us. You’ll receive it to-night or to-morrow.”

“Well,” replied Max with some hesitation, “if it is to be done, it must be done later. At present I cannot get away. My place is in London.”

“Beside the lady to whom you are so devoted, eh?” the Frenchman laughed.

Max was irritated by the man’s veiled sarcasm.

“No. Because I have a duty to perform towards a friend, and even the temptation of a fortune shall not cause me to neglect it.”

“A friend. Whom?”

“The matter is my own affair. It has nothing to do with our business,” was Max’s rather sharp response.

“Very well,” said the other, quite unruffled. “I can only regret. I will wire to-night to Muhil Pasha, and endeavour to obtain a postponement of the agreement.”

“As you wish,” Max said, still angered at this importation of the woman he loved into the discussion. “I may as well say that it is quite immaterial.”

“To you it may be so. But I am not rich like yourself,” the other said. “I have to obtain my income where I can by honest means, and this is a chance which I do not intend to lose. I look to you – I hold you to your promise, Barclay – to assist me.”

“I do not intend to break my promise. I merely say that I cannot go out to Turkey at once.”

“But you will come – you will promise that in a few days – in a week – or when you have finished this mysterious duty to your friend, that you will come with me?” he urged. “Come, give me your hand. I don’t want to approach anybody else.”

“Well, if you really wish it,” Max replied, and he gave the tempter his hand in pledge.

When, a few seconds later, Jean Adam turned to light a fresh cigarette there was upon his thin lips a smile – a sinister smile of triumph.

Max Barclay had played dice with the Devil, and lost. He had, in his ignorance of the net spread about him, in that moment pledged his own honour.

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 the Pall Mall to-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.”