Max Barclay, on leaving Dr Petrovitch, had taken a cab straight to
Charlie's chambers in Jermyn Street, arriving there shortly before six.
Green, his man, had told him, however, that his master had returned soon
after luncheon, ordered two big bags to be packed, and had left with
them upon a hansom, merely saying that he should be absent a week, or
perhaps two, and that no letters need be forwarded.
Max was not surprised at this sudden departure, for old Statham had a
habit of sending his confidential secretary hither and thither at almost
a moment's notice. The old fellow's financial interests were enormous,
and widely dispersed. Some of them were in Servia and Bulgaria, where
he held concessions of great value.
He had had a finger in most of the financial undertakings in the Near
East during the past fifteen years or so. Out of the Oriental Railway
extension from Salonica to the Servian frontier alone he had, it was
said, made a huge fortune, for he was the original concessionaire. For
some years he had lived in the Balkans, looking after his interests in
person, but nowadays he entrusted it all to his agents with occasional
visits by this confidential secretary.
Therefore Max suspected that Charlie had left for the East, more
especially that at the hour he had left Jermyn Street he could have
caught the afternoon Continental service from Charing Cross _via_
Boulogne.
So he went on to his own rooms, changed, dined at the Automobile Club,
his mind being full of what the Doctor had told him concerning Charlie
and Maud. He had, of course, suspected it all along. Marion knew the
truth, but, loyal to her brother, she had said no word. Yet when he had
seen Rolfe with the ex-statesman's pretty daughter, he had long ago
guessed that the pair were more than mere friends.
That the Doctor disapproved of the affair was somewhat disconcerting,
more especially as he had openly declared that he had other ideas of
Maud's future. What were they? Was her father hoping that she would
marry some young Servian--a man of his own race?
He sat in the club over a cigar till nearly nine o'clock, wondering how
he could assist the man who was not only his dearest friend but brother
of the girl to whom he was so entirely devoted and whom he intended to
make his wife.
He sighed with regret when he thought of her undergoing that shop
drudgery to which she had never been accustomed. The early rising, the
eternal drive of business, the calm, smiling exterior towards those
pettish, snapping women customers, and those hasty scrambles for meals.
He had seen her engaged in her business, and he had met her after shop
hours, pale, worn, and fagged out.
And yet he--the man who was to be her husband--lived in that ease and
idleness which an income of twelve thousand a year secured.
Had Petrovitch not told him that Marion was dining at Cromwell Road and
going to a concert with Maud afterwards, he would have wired to her to
meet him. But he knew how devoted the two girls were to each other,
notwithstanding the difference of their stations, and how Maud welcomed
Marion's company at concerts or theatres to which her father so seldom
cared to go.
Suddenly it occurred to him that if he returned to the Doctor's he would
meet Marion there later on, when she came back from Queen's Hall, and be
able to drive her home to that dull street at the back of Oxford Street
where the assistants of Cunnington's, Limited, "lived in."
This reflection aroused him, and, glancing at the smoking-room clock, he
saw it wanted a quarter to ten.
Two other men, friends of his, were sitting near, discussing motoring
matters, and their eternal chatter upon cylinders, tyres, radiators, and
electric horns bored him. Therefore he rose, put on his coat, and,
hailing a cab, told the man to drive to Victoria, where he took the
underground railway to Gloucester Road Station.
From there to the house of the ex-Minister was only a very short walk.
The night was mild, bright, and starlight, for the haze of sundown which
had threatened rain had been succeeded by a brilliant evening. Cromwell
Road is always deserted at that hour before the cabs and carriages begin
to return from restaurants and theatres, and as he strolled along,
knowing that he was always welcome at the Doctor's house to chat and
smoke, his was the only footfall to be heard in the long open
thoroughfare.
Ascending the steps beneath the wide portico, he pressed the visitors'
bell, but though he waited several minutes, there was no response.
Again and again he rang, but the bell was apparently out of order, so he
gave a sounding rat-tat with the knocker.
Then he listened intently; but to his surprise no one stirred.
Over the door was a bright light, as usual, revealing the number in
great white numerals, and through the chinks of the Venetian blinds of
the dining-room he could see that the electric lamps were on.
Again and again he rang and knocked. It was surely curious, he thought,
that all the servants should be out, even though the Doctor might be
absent. The failure to arouse anybody caused him both surprise and
apprehension. Though the electric bell might be out of order, yet his
loud knock must be heard even up to the garrets. London servants are
often neglectful in the absence of their masters, and more especially if
there is no mistress, yet it seemed hardly creditable that they would go
out and leave the place unattended.
Seven or eight times he repeated his summons, standing upon the
door-steps with his ears strained to catch the slightest sound.
Once he thought he heard distinctly the noise of stealthy footsteps in
the hall, and he held his breath. They were repeated. He was quite
certain that his ears had not deceived him, for in the street all was
silent as the grave. He heard someone moving within as though creeping
slowly from the door.
What could it mean? Were thieves within?
He examined the door to see if the lock had been tampered with, but, so
far as he could discern, it was untouched. He was undecided how to act,
though now positively certain that something unusual was in progress.
He glanced up and down the long road, with its rows of gas lamps, but no
one was visible. The only sound was the far-distant rat-tat of the
postman on his last round.
For the Doctor to be out of an evening was very unusual; and that
stealthy footstep had alarmed him. If there were actually thieves, then
they had probably entered by the area door. Max was by no means a
coward. There was a mystery there--a mystery he intended to at once
investigate.
Doctor Petrovitch was one of his dearest friends and he meant to act as
a friend should act.
What puzzled him most of all was the absence of the servants. All of
them were apparently highly trustworthy, yet the foreigner in London, he
remembered, often engaged servants without sufficient inquiry into their
past.
For a few moment he stood motionless, his ears strained, at the door.
The movement was repeated. Someone seemed to be leaving the
dining-room, for he distinctly heard the light footfall.
Therefore, with scarce a sound, he crept down the steps to the pavement
and descended the winding flight to the area door. With great caution
he turned the handle, but alas! the knob went right round in his hand,
the door remaining still fastened.
A light showed in the kitchen, but whether anyone was there he of course
could not tell. Again he tried the door, but without avail. It was
securely fastened, while, as far as he could ascertain, there were no
marks of any forcible entry.
Should he rap at the door? Or would that further alarm the intruders?
He had knocked many times at the front door, it was true, but they would
no doubt wait until they believed he had gone. Or else they might
escape by the rear of the premises.
What should he do?
He hesitated again, with bated breath.
Next instant, however, he heard upon the stone steps above him, leading
from the pavement to the front door, the light tread of feet quickly
descending. Someone, having watched him descend there, was leaving the
house! And yet so noiselessly that at first Max believed himself
mistaken.
In a second he had dashed up the area steps and stood upon the pavement.
But already he realised the truth. The front door stood ajar, and the
intruder was flying as fast as his feet could carry him in the direction
of the Brompton Road.
Swiftly, without looking back, the man sped lightly along the pavement
to the next corner, which he turned and was a moment later lost to view.
Max Barclay did not follow. He stood there like a man in a dream.
"What--in Heaven's name--is the meaning of this?" as, held powerless, he
stood staring in the direction the fugitive had taken.
His first impulse had been to follow, but next moment, as the escaping
intruder had passed beneath a street lamp he recognised the figure
unmistakably, both by the clothes and hat, as none other than his friend
Charles Rolfe!
He fell back, staggered by the discovery.
For quite a brief space he stood unable to move. Then, seeing the door
ajar, he ascended the steps and entered the house. The lights were
switched on everywhere, but, on going in, something--what it was he
could never describe--struck him as peculiar. Hardly had he crossed the
threshold than he became instinctively aware that some mystery was
there.
In a few seconds the amazing truth became apparent, for when he entered
the dining-room, to the left of the hall, he started, and an involuntary
exclamation of surprise escaped him. The place was empty, devoid of
every stick of furniture!
From room to room he dashed, only to find that everything had been
mysteriously removed. In the few brief hours or his absence Doctor
Petrovitch had apparently fled, taking with him all his household
effects.
He stood in the hall utterly dumbfounded.
Why had Rolfe been there? What had he been doing in the empty house?
The swift manner in which the removal had been effected increased the
mystery, for he had not left the Doctor till five o'clock. Besides, he
had no doubt dined with his daughter Maud and with Marion, and they
would not leave until about eight o'clock.
Again, a removal of that magnitude, requiring at least two vans, after
dark could not possibly be effected without attracting the notice of the
constable on duty!
Perhaps the police really did know who carried out the sudden change of
residence. Anyhow, the whole affair was a complete enigma which amazed
and stupefied him.
Presently, when he had somewhat recovered from his surprise, he ascended
the stairs, his footsteps now echoing strangely through the empty place,
and there found that the drawing-room, and, in fact, all the other
rooms, had been completely and quickly cleared. The carpets had in some
cases been left, but in the hasty removal curtains had been torn down
from the rings, leaving cornices and poles, and the grand piano
remained, it being apparently too large and heavy for rapid transit.
He ascended, even to the servants' rooms on the top floor, but found
scarcely a vestige of furniture left.
In one back room, a small half-garret with a slightly eloping roof, he
noticed a cupboard which curiosity led him to open, as he had opened
other cupboards. As he did so, he saw a bundle upon the floor, as
though it had been hastily thrown there.
As he pulled it forth it unrolled, and he then saw that it was a woman's
light grey tweed skirt and coat.
The latter felt damp to his touch, and as he held it up to examine it he
saw that the breast and sleeve were both saturated with blood!
It dropped from his nerveless fingers. Some secret crime had been
committed in that house, so suddenly and mysteriously divested of its
furniture.
But what?
Max Barclay, pale as death, stood gazing around him, staggered,
bewildered, horrified, scarce daring to breathe.
Why had Charles Rolfe fled so hurriedly and secretly from the place?