The Pauper of Park Lane

“Where is she?” he demanded, springing up from the seat and facing his companion.

But she made no response. She only stared blankly before her at the dark sluggish waters of the Seine.

Chapter Thirty Five.

In which there is another Mystery

The girl puzzled him.

Her attitude was as though she delighted in tantalising him, as if she held knowledge superior to his own. And so she did. She was evidently aware of the whereabouts of Maud – his own lost love.

He repeated his question, his eyes fixed upon her pale, serious countenance. But she made no response.

“Why have you brought me here, Miss Lorena?” he asked. “You told me you had something to tell me.”

“So I have,” she answered, looking up at him again. “I don’t know, Mr Rolfe, what opinion you must have of me, but I hope you will consider my self-introduction permissible under the circumstances.”

“Why, of course,” he declared, for truth to tell he was much interested in her. She seemed so charmingly unconventional, not much more than a schoolgirl, and yet with all the delightful sweetness of budding womanhood. “But you have mentioned the name of a woman – a woman who is lost to me.”

“Ah! Maud Petrovitch,” she sighed. “Yes. I know. I know all the tragic story.”

“The tragic story?” he echoed, staring at her. “What do you mean?”

“I mean the tragic story of your love,” was her slow, distinct reply. “Pray forgive me, Mr Rolfe, for mentioning a subject which must be most painful, but I have only done so to show you that I am aware of the secret of your affection.”

“Then you are a friend of Maud?”

She nodded, without uttering a word.

“Where is she? I must see her,” he said quickly, with a fierce, anxious look upon his countenance. “This suspense is killing me.”

She was silent. Slowly she turned her fine eyes upon his, looking straight into his face.

“You ought surely to know,” she said, unflinchingly.

“I – I know! Why? Why do you say that?”

“Because you know the truth – you know why they so suddenly disappeared.”

“I know the truth!” he repeated. “Indeed I do not. You are speaking in enigmas, just as you yourself are an enigma, Miss Lorena.”

Her lips relaxed into a smile of incredulity.

“Why, Mr Rolfe, do you make a pretence of ignorance, when you are fully aware of the whole of the combination of circumstances which led Doctor Petrovitch and his daughter to escape from London?”

“But, my dear girl!” he cried; “you entirely misjudge me. I am in complete ignorance.”

“And yet you were present at Cromwell Road on the night in question!” she said slowly, fixing her eyes calmly upon him.

“Who are you, Miss Lorena, that you should make these direct allegations against me?” he cried, staring at her.

“I am your friend, Mr Rolfe, if you will allow me to act as such.”

“My friend!” he cried. “But you are alleging that I have secret knowledge of the Doctor’s disappearance – that I make a pretence of ignorance. If I were in possession of the facts, is it feasible that I should be so anxious of the welfare of Maud?”

“No anxiety is necessary.”

“Then she is alive?”

“I believe so.”

“And well?”

“Yes, she is quite well. But – ”

“But what?” he demanded. “Speak, Lorena. Speak, I beg of you.”

She had hesitated, and he saw by her contracted brow that anxiety had arisen within her mind.

“Well – she is safe, I believe, up to the present. Yet if what I fear be true, she is daily nay, hourly, in peril – in deadliest peril.”

“Peril!” he gasped. “Of what?”

“Of her life. You know that the political organisations of the East are fraught with murder plots. Dr Petrovitch has opponents – fierce, dastardly opponents, who would hesitate at nothing to encompass his end. They have intrigued to induce the King to place him in disgrace, but at Belgrade the Petrovitch party are still predominant. It is only in the country – at Nisch and Pirot – where the Opposition is really strong.”

“You seem to know Servia and the complication of Servian politics, mademoiselle?” he remarked.

“Yes, I happen to know something of them. I have made them a study, and I assure you it would be very fascinating if there were not quite so many imprisonments in the awful fortress of Belgrade, and secret assassination. But Servia is a young country,” the girl added, with a philosophic air, “and all young countries must go through the same periods of unrest and internal trouble. At any rate, all parties in Servia acknowledge that King Peter is a constitutional monarch, and is doing his utmost for the benefit of his people.”

“You are a partisan of the Karageorgevitch?”

“I am. I make no secret of it. Alexander and Draga were mere puppets in the hands of Servia’s enemies. Under King Peter the country is once more prosperous, and, after all, political life there is no more fraught with danger than it is in go-ahead Bulgaria. Did they not kill poor Petkoff the other day in the Boris Garden in Sofia? That was a more cruel and dastardly murder than any in Servia, for Petkoff had only one arm, and was unable to defend himself. The other was shot away at the Shipka where he fought for his country against the Turk.”

“How is it you know so much of Servia?” Charlie inquired, for he found himself listening to the girl’s sound arguments with much interest. Her views upon the complicated situation in the Near East were almost identical with his. “Did you ever see Petkoff, for instance?”

“I knew him well. Twice I’ve dined at his house is Sofia. Strangely enough, he was with his bosom friend Stambuloff when the latter was assassinated, and for years was a marked man. As Prince Ferdinand’s Prime Minister, which he was at the time he was shot, he introduced many reforms into Bulgaria, and was a patriot to the core.”

He was surprised. Who could this girl be who dined with Prime Ministers, and who was, apparently, behind the scenes of Balkan politics?

“And you fear lest the same fate should befall Maud. Why?” he asked.

“Because the Opposition has a motive – a strong motive.”

“For the secret assassination of the daughter of the man who has made Servia what she is!” he exclaimed.

“Yes. Maud is in peril.”

“And for that reason, I suppose, is living incognito?”

“Possibly,” she answered, not without hesitation. “There is, I believe, a second reason.”

“What is that?”

“I scarcely like to tell you, Mr Rolfe. We are strangers, you and I.”

“But do tell me. I am very anxious to know. If she is your friend, she has, no doubt, told you of our love.”

“Well, she wishes to avoid you.”

“Avoid me – why?”

“Because acquaintance with you increases her peril.”

“How absurd!” he cried. “How can her love for me affect her father’s political opponents in Servia?”

“I am ignorant of the reasons. I only know the broad facts.”

“But the Doctor had retired from active political life long ago! He told me one day how tired he was of the eternal bickerings of the Skuptchina.”

“Of course he had ostensibly retired, but he secretly directed the policy of the present Government. In all serious matters King Peter still consults him.”

“And that is why you have brought me into the privacy of these gardens, Miss Lorena – to tell me this!” he laughed, bending to her and drawing a semi-circle in the gravel with the point of his stick.

“No,” she replied sharply, with just a little frown of displeasure. “You do not understand me, Mr Rolfe. Have I not said, a few moments ago, that I wanted to be your friend?”

“You are a most delightful little friend,” was his courteous reply.

“Ah! I see. You treat me as a child,” was her rather impatient reply. “You are not serious.”

“I am most serious,” he declared, with a solemn face. “Indeed, I was never more serious in my life than I am at this moment.”

She burst out laughing – a peal of light, merry, irresponsible, girlish laughter.

“And before I met you,” she said, “I thought you a most terribly austere person.”

“So I am – at times. I have to be, Miss Lorena. I’m secretary to a very serious old gentleman, remember.”

“Yes. And that was the very reason why I threw the convenances to the winds – if there are any in the Anglo-French circle in Paris – and spoke to you – a perfect stranger.”

“You spoke because I was Mr Statham’s secretary?” he asked, somewhat puzzled.

“Yes. I wanted to speak to you privately.”

“Well, nobody can overhear us here,” he said glancing around, and noticing only a fat bonne wheeling a puny child in a gaudily-trapped perambulator.

“I wanted to speak to you regarding Mr Statham,” she said, after a long pause. “I ascertained you were coming to Paris, and waited in order to see you.”

“Why?” he asked, much surprised. The refusal of her name, her determination to conceal her identity, her friendship for Maud, and her intimate acquaintance with thing Servian, all combined to puzzle him to the verge of distraction. Who was she? What was she?

The mystery of the Doctor and his daughter was an increasing one. His pretended ignorance of certain facts had been unmasked by her in a manner which showed that she was aware of the actual truth. Was she really a secret messenger from the girl he loved so devotedly – the girl with whom he had last walked and talked with in the quietness of the London sundown in Nevern Square?

He glanced again at her pretty but mysterious face. She was a lady – refined, well-educated, with tiny white hands and well-shod feet. There was nothing of the artificial chic of the Parisienne about her, but a quiet dignity which seemed almost incongruous in one so young. Indeed, he wondered that she was allowed about in the streets of Paris alone, without a chaperone.

Her piquante manner, and her utter disregard of all conventionality, amused him. True, she was older than Maud but most possibly her bosom friend. If so, Maud was probably in hiding in Paris, and this pretty girl had been sent to him as Cupid’s messenger.

“I wanted to see you on a matter which closely concerns Mr Statham.”

“Anything that concerns Mr Statham concerns myself, Miss Lorena,” he said. “I am his confidential secretary.”

“I have ascertained that, otherwise I would not have dared to speak to you. I want to warn you.”

“Of what?”

“Of a deeply-laid conspiracy to wreck Mr Statham’s life,” she said. “There have arisen recently two men who are now determined to lay bare the secret of the millionaire’s past, in revenge for some old grievance, real or fancied.”

“For the purposes of blackmail – eh?” he asked. “Every rich man is constantly being subjected to attempted blackmail in some form or other.”

“No. They have no desire to obtain money. Their sole intention is to expose Mr Statham.”

“Most men who are unsuccessful are eager to denounce the methods of their more fortunate friends,” he said, smiling. “Mr Statham has no fear of exposure, I assure you.” The girl looked him straight in the face with a long, steady gaze.

“Ah! I see?” she exclaimed, after a pause. “You treat me as an enemy, Mr Rolfe; not as a friend.”

Chapter Thirty Six.

The Locked Door in Park Lane

“Excuse me, Miss Lorena, I do not,” he declared quickly. “Only we have heard so many threats of exposure that to cease to regard them seriously. Mr Statham’s high reputation is sufficient guarantee to the public.”

“I quite admit that,” answered the girl. “It is not the present that is in question, but the past.”

“In these days of hustle, a man’s past matters but little. It is what he is, not what he was, which the public recognise.”

“Personally,” she said, “I hold Mr Statham in highest esteem. I have never met him, it’s true, but I have knowledge of certain kind and generous actions on his part, actions which have brought happiness and prosperity to those who have fallen upon misfortune. For that reason I resolved to speak to you and warn you of the plot in progress. Do you happen to know a certain Mr John Adams?”

Rolfe started, and stared at her. What could she know of the Damoclean sword suspended over the house of Statham?

“Well,” he answered guardedly, “I once met a man of that name, I think.”

“Recently?”

“About a month ago.”

“You knew nothing of him prior to that?”

Rolfe hesitated. “Well, no,” he replied.

“He made pretence of being friendly with you.”

“Yes. But to tell you the truth I was somewhat suspicions of him. What do you know of him? Tell me.”

“I happen to be well acquainted with him,” the girl responded. “It is he who has arisen like one from the grave, and intends to avenge the wrong which he declares that Mr Statham had done him.”

“Recently?”

“No, years ago, when they were abroad together – and Mr Statham was still a poor man.”

Charlie Rolfe was silent. He knew Adams; he knew, too, that evil was intended. He had warned old Sam Statham, but the latter had not heeded. Adams had had the audacity to approach him in confidence, believing that he might be bought over. When he had discovered that the millionaire’s secretary was incorruptible, he openly declared his sinister intentions.

“I had no idea you were acquainted with Adams,” he said, still puzzled to know who she was, and what was her motive.

“I happen to know certain details of the plot,” she answered.

“And you will reveal them to me?” he asked in quick anxiety.

“Upon certain conditions.”

“And what are they? I am all attention.”

“The first is that you will not seek to learn the identity of the person who is associated with Mr Adams in the forthcoming exposure; and the second is that you say nothing to Mr Statham regarding our secret meeting.”

“Why?” he asked, not quite understanding the reason of her last stipulation. “I thought you wished to warn Mr Statham?”

“No. I warn you. You can take measures of precaution, on Mr Statham’s behalf without making explanation.”

“Mr Statham has already seen John Adams and recognised him. He is already forewarned.”

“And he has not taken any steps in self-defence?” she cried quickly.

“Why need he trouble?”

“Why, because that man Adams has sworn to hound him to self-destruction.”

Rolfe shrugged his shoulders, and replied:

“Mr Statham has really no apprehension of any unpleasantness, Miss Lorena. It is true that in the old days the two men were friends, and, apparently, they quarrelled. Adams was lost for years to all who knew him, and now suddenly reappears to find his old acquaintance wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice, and seeks, as many more before him have done, to profit by his former friendship.”

“Or enmity,” added the girl, lowering her sunshade a little until for a moment it hid her features. “I do not think you realise the dastardly cunning of the plot in progress. It has not only as its object the ruin of the credit of the house of Statham Brothers, but the creation of a scandal which Mr Samuel Statham will not dare to face. He must either fly the country, or commit suicide.”

“Well?”

“The latter is expected by the two men who have combined and are now perfecting their ingenious conspiracy. It is believed by them that he will take his own life.”

Charlie Rolfe reflected for a moment. He recollected old Sam’s terrible agitation on the day when he recognised John Adams leaning against the railings of the Park. Of late, the great financier had betrayed signs of unusual nervousness, and had complained several times of insomnia. To his secretary knowledge he had spent two nights that very week in walking the streets of London from midnight until dawn, ostensibly to do charitable actions to the homeless, but in reality because his mind was becoming unbalanced by the constant strain of not knowing from one moment to another when Adams would deal his staggering blow.

Had there been any question of blackmail, the aid of solicitors and of Scotland Yard could have been invoked. But there had been no threat beyond the statement made openly to Rolfe by the man who intended to encompass the ruin of the eccentric millionaire and philanthropist.

“I think, Miss Lorena, that we need have no fear of Mr Statham doing anything rash,” he said. “But why is it hoped that he will prefer to take his life rather than face any exposure?”

“Because they will profit by his death – profit to an enormous degree.”

“But how can Adams profit? He has had no dealings with Mr Statham of late.”

“Not Adams, but his friend. The latter will become wealthy.”

“And may I not know his name?”

“No. That is the stipulation which I make. For the present it is sufficient that you should be made aware of the broad lines of the plot, and that its main object is the death of Samuel Statham.”

“And you wish me to tell him all this?”

“Certainly, only without explaining that I was your informant.”

“Why do you wish to conceal the fact, Miss Lorena?” he asked. “Surely he would be only too delighted to be able to thank you for your warning?”

She shook her head, saying:

“If it were known that I had exposed their plans it would place me in peril. They are determined and relentless men, who would willingly sacrifice a woman in order to gain their ends, which in this case is a large fortune.”

“And you will not tell me the name of Adams’s associate in the matter?”

“No. I – I cannot do that. Please do not ask me,” she answered hurriedly.

Rolfe was again silent for a few moments. At last he asked:

“Cannot you tell me something of the past relations between Adams and Statham? You seem to know all the details of the strange affair.”

“Adams makes certain serious allegations which he can substantiate. There is a certain witness whom Mr Statham believes to be dead, but who is still alive, and is now in England.”

“A witness – of what?” asked Rolfe quickly.

“Of the crime which Adams alleges.”

“Crime – what crime?” ejaculated the young man in surprise, staring at his pretty companion.

“Some serious offence, but of what nature I am not permitted to explain to you.”

“Why not, Miss Lorena? You must! Remember that Mr Statham is in ignorance of this – I mean that Adams intends to charge him with a crime. Surely the position is most serious! I imagined that Adams’s charges were criticism of Mr Statham’s methods of finance.”

“Finance does not enter into it at all,” said the girl. “The delegation is a secret crime by which the millionaire laid the foundation of his fortune; a crime committed abroad, and of which there are two witnesses still living, men who were, until a few weeks ago, believed to be dead.

“But you tell me that Adams’s associate will, if Mr Statham commits suicide, profit to an enormous amount. Will you not explain? If this is so, why have they not attempted to levy blackmail? If the charge has foundation – which I do not for one moment believe – then surely Mr Statham would be prepared to make payment and hush up the affair? He would not be human if he refused.”

“The pair are fully alive to the danger of any attempt to procure money by promise of secrecy,” she replied. “They have already fully considered the matter, and arrived at the conclusion that to compel Mr Statham to take his own life is the wiser and easier course.”

“You seem to be in their confidence, Miss Lorena?” he said, gazing at the pretty girl at his side.

“Yes, I am. That is why I am unable to reveal to you the name of Adams’s companion,” she replied. “All I can tell you is that the intention is to make against him a terrible charge of which they possess evidence which is, apparently, overwhelming.”

“Then you know the charge it is intended to bring against him – eh?”

“Yes,” was her prompt answer. “To me it seems outrageous, incomprehensible – and yet – ”

“Well?”

“And yet, if it is really true, it would account to a very great degree for Mr Statham’s eccentricity of which I’ve so often read in the papers. No one enters his house in Park Lane. Is not that so?”

“He is shy, and does not care for strangers,” was Rolfe’s response.

“But it said in the paper only a week ago that nobody has ever been upstairs in that house except himself. There is a door on the stairs, they say, which is always kept locked and bolted.”

“And if that is so?”

“Well – have you ever been upstairs, Mr Rolfe. Tell me; I’m very anxious to know.”

“I make no secret of it,” was his reply, smiling the while. “I have never been upstairs. Entrance there is forbidden.”

“Even to you – his confidential secretary?”

“Yes, even to me.”

“And yet there are signs of the upstairs’ rooms being occupied,” she remarked. “I have seen lights there myself, as I’ve passed the house. I was along Park Lane late one evening last week.”

“So you have been recently in London?”

“London is my home. I am only here on a visit,” was her reply. “And ascertaining you were coming here, I resolved to see you.”

“And has this serious allegation which Adams intends to bring any connection with the mystery concerning the mansion?”

“Yes. It has.”

“In what way?”

She paused, as though uncertain whether or not to tell the truth.

“Because,” she said at last, “because I firmly believe, from facts known to me, that confirmation of the truth of Adams’s charge will be discovered beyond that locked door!”

Chapter Thirty Seven.

Max Barclay is Inquisitive

“Miss Rolfe has left the firm’s employ, sir.”

“Left – left Cunnington’s?” gasped Max Barclay, staring open-mouthed at Mr Warner, the buyer.

“Yes, sir. She left suddenly yesterday morning,” repeated the dapper little man with the pen behind his ear.

“But this is most extraordinary – to leave at a moment’s notice! I thought she was so very comfortable here. She always spoke so kindly of you, and for the consideration with which you always treated her.”

“It was very kind of her, I’m sure,” replied the buyer; “but it is the rule here – a moment’s notice on either side.”

“But why? Why has she left?”

Warner hesitated. He, of course, knew the truth, but he was not anxious to speak it.

“Some little misunderstanding, I think.”

“With you?”

“Oh, dear no. She was called down to the counting-house yesterday morning, and she did not return.”

“Then she’s been discharged – eh?” asked Max in a hard voice.

“I believe so, sir. At least, it would appear so.”

“And are they in the habit of discharging assistants in this manner – throwing them out of a home and out of employment at a moment’s notice? Is Mr Cunnington himself aware of it?”

“It would be Mr Cunnington himself who discharged her,” was the buyer’s answer. “No other person has authority either to engage or discharge.”

“But there must be a reason for her dismissal!” exclaimed Max.

“Certainly. But only Mr Cunnington knows that.”

“Can I see him?”

“Well, at this hour he’s generally very busy indeed; but if you go down to the counting-house in the next building, and ask for him, he may give you a moment.”

“Thank you, Mr Warner,” Barclay said, a little abruptly, and, turning on his heel, left the department.

“She hasn’t told him evidently,” remarked one girl-assistant to the other. “I’m sorry Rolfie’s gone. She wasn’t half a bad sort. She was old Warner’s favourite, too, or her young gentleman would never have been allowed to talk to her in the shop. If you or I had had a young man to come and see us as she had, we’d have been fired out long ago.”

“I wonder who her young man really is,” remarked the second girl, watching him as he strode out, a lithe figure in a well-cut suit of grey tweeds.

“Well, he’s a thorough gentleman, just like her brother,” remarked her companion. “I saw him in his motor-boat up at Hampton the Sunday before last. He’s completely gone on her. I wonder what’ll happen now. I don’t think much of the new girl; do you? Does her hair awfully badly.” Unconscious of the criticism he had evoked, Max Barclay descended the stairs, passed through the long shops – crowded as they always were in the afternoon – into the adjoining building, and sought audience of the titular head of the great firm.

After waiting for some time in an outer office he was shown in. The moment he asked his question Mr Cunnington grasped the situation.

“I very much regret, sir, that it is not my habit to give information to a second party concerning the dismissal of any of my assistants. If the young lady applies for her character, she is perfectly entitled to have it.”