When about ten o'clock next morning Mr Warner, buyer of the costumes at
Cunnington's, noticed the tall, athletic figure of the young man in
brown tweeds known as Mr Evans of Dover Street advance across the drab
carpet with which the "department" was covered, he smiled within
himself.
The "young ladies" of Cunnington's were not allowed any flirtations. It
was "the sack" at a moment's notice for any girl being found flirting
either with one of the male assistants or with an outsider, though he be
a good customer. Cunnington's hundred and one rules, with fines ranging
from threepence to half-a-crown, were stringent ones. Mr Cunnington
himself, a short, black-bearded man, of keen business instinct, was a
kindly master; but in such a huge establishment with its hundreds of
employees, rules must of necessity, be adhered to. Nevertheless, the
buyers or headmen of the various departments each controlled their own
assistants, and some being more lenient than others towards the girls,
rules were very often broken.
Cunnington's was, therefore, known to be one of the most comfortable
"cribs" in the trade. Assistants who came up to London in search of a
billet always went to see Mr Cunnington, and happy he or she who
obtained a personal introduction to him. He had earned his success by
dint of hard work. Originally an assistant himself in a Birmingham
shop, he had gone into business for himself in Oxford Street, in one
small establishment, and had, by fair dealing and giving good value,
prospered, until great rows of windows testified to the fortune he had
amassed.
Unlike most employers in the drapery trade, he was generous to a degree,
and he appreciated devoted service. In his great shops he had many old
hands. Some, indeed, had been with him ever since his first beginning.
Those were his trusted lieutenants, of whom "Warner of the Costumes" was
one.
What Warner said was never queried, and, being a kindly man, the girls
in his department did pretty much as they liked.
Max Barclay, or Mr Evans as he had several times given his name, had
run the gauntlet of the shopwalkers of the outer shops, and penetrated
anxiously to the costumes. At that hour there were no customers.
Before eleven there is but little shopping in Oxford Street. Buyers
then see travellers, who come in their broughams, and assistants
re-arrange and display their stocks.
On entering the department, Max at once caught sight of the tall
fair-haired girl who, with her back to him, was arranging a linen
costume upon a stand.
Two other girls glanced across at him, but, knowing the truth, did not
ask what he required. He was Miss Rolfe's admirer, they guessed, for
men did not usually come in alone and buy twenty-guinea ready-made
costumes for imaginary relatives as he had done.
He was standing behind her before she turned suddenly, and blushed in
surprise. Warner, sitting in his little glass desk, noticed the look
upon the girl's face and fully realised the situation. He liked
Marion's brother, while the girl herself was extremely modest and an
excellent saleswoman. He knew that Charles Rolfe and this Mr Evans
were friends, and that fact had prevented him from forbidding the
flirtation to continue.
Evans was evidently a gentleman. Of that he had no doubt.
"Why!" she exclaimed to her lover. "This is really a great surprise.
You are early?"
"Because I wanted to see you, Marion," he answered, quickly.
She noticed his anxiety, and in an instant grew alarmed.
"Why, what's the matter?" she asked, glancing round to see whether the
other girls were watching her. "You ought not to come here, you know,
Max. I fear Mr Warner will object to you seeing me in business hours."
"Oh! never mind him, darling," he replied, in a low voice. "I want to
ask you a question or two. Where did you see Maud last night?"
"I met her at the door at Queen's Hall. I was to go to Cromwell Road to
call for her, but she telegraphed to me at the last moment. She was
with Charlie, she told me."
"And where is Charlie?"
"Gone to Servia. He left Charing Cross by the mail last night."
Max reflected that his friend had not left as his sister supposed.
"And where did you leave Maud?"
"I walked to the `tube' station at Piccadilly Circus, and left her
there. She went to Earl's Court Station, and I took a bus home. She
told me that you'd been to see the Doctor earlier in the evening. But
why do you ask all this?"
"Because--well, because, Marion, something unusual has occurred," he
replied.
"Unusual!" she echoed. "What do you mean?"
"Did Maud tell you anything about her future movements last night--or
mention her father's intentions?"
"Intentions of what?"
"Of leaving the house in Cromwell Road."
"No; she told me nothing. Only--"
"Only what?"
"Well, it struck me that she had something on her mind. You know how
bright and merry she usually is. Well, last night she seemed very
thoughtful, and I wondered whether she had had any little difference
with Charlie."
"You mean that they may have quarrelled?"
"I hardly think that likely," she said, quickly. "Charlie is far too
fond of her, as you know."
"And her father does not altogether approve of it," Max remarked. "He
has told me so."
"Poor Charlie!" the girl said, for she was very fond of her brother. He
was always a good friend to her, and gave her money to buy her dresses
and purchase the few little luxuries which her modest stipend as a
shop-assistant would not allow her to otherwise possess. "I'm sure he's
devoted to Maud. And she's one of the best girls I know. They'd make a
perfect pair. But the Doctor's a foreigner, and doesn't really
understand Englishmen."
"Perhaps that's it," Max said, trying to assume a careless air, for he
felt that a hundred eyes were upon him.
Their position was not a very comfortable one, to say the least. He
knew that he ought not to have come there during business hours, but the
mystery had so puzzled him that he felt he must continue his inquiries.
He had fully expected the morning post to bring him a line from the
Doctor. But there had been nothing.
Both he and Maud had disappeared suddenly, leaving no trace behind--no
trace except that woman's coat with the stain of blood upon the breast.
Was it one of Maud's dresses, he wondered. In the band he had noticed
the name of its maker--Maison Durand, of Conduit Street--one of the best
dressmakers in London. True he had found it in the servants' quarters,
but domestics did not have their clothes made by Durand.
"But tell me, Max," said the girl, her fine eyes fixed upon her lover,
"what makes you suggest that the Doctor is about to leave Cromwell
Road."
"He has left already," was Max's reply. "That's the curious part of
it."
"Left! Moved away!"
"Yes. I came to ask you what you know about it. They've gone away
without a word!"
"How? Why, you were there last evening!"
"I was. But soon after I left, and while Maud was with you at the
concert, three vans came from Harmer's Stores and cleared out the whole
of the furniture."
"There wasn't a bill of sale, or something of that sort, I suppose?" she
suggested.
"Certainly not. The Doctor is a wealthy man. The copper mines of
Kaopanik bring him in a splendid income in themselves," Max said. "No;
there's a mystery--a very great mystery about the affair."
"A mystery! Tell me all about it!" she cried, anxiously, for Maud was
her best friend, while the Doctor had also been _extremely_ kind to her.
"I don't know anything," he responded. "Except that the whole place by
half-past ten last night had been cleared out of furniture. Only the
grand piano and a few big pieces have been left. Harmer's have taken
the whole of it to their depository at Chiswick."
"Well, that's most extraordinary, certainly," she said, opening her eyes
in blank surprise. "Maud must have known what was taking place.
Possibly that is why she was so melancholy and pensive."
"Did she say nothing which would throw any light upon their sadden
disappearance?"
Marion reflected for a few moments, her brows slightly knit in thought.
"Well, she said something about her father being much worried, but she
did not tell me why. About a fortnight ago she told me that both she
and her father had many enemies, one of whom would not hesitate to kill
him if a chance occurred. I tried to get from her the reason, but she
would not tell me."
"But you don't think that the Doctor has been the victim of an assassin,
do you?" Max asked in apprehension.
"No; but Maud may have been," she answered. "Killed?"
"I hope not, yet--"
"Why do you hesitate, Marion, to tell me all you know?" he urged.
"There is a mystery here which we must fathom."
"My brother knows nothing yet, I suppose."
Barclay hesitated.
"I suppose not," was his reply.
"Then, before I say anything, I must see him."
"But he's away in Servia, is he not? He won't be back for six months."
"Then I must wait till he returns," she answered, decisively.
"Maud has told you something. Come, admit it," he urged.
The girl was silent for a full minute.
"Yes," she sighed. "She did tell me something."
"When?"
"Last night, as we were walking together to the station--something that
I refused to believe. But I believe it now."
"Then you know the truth," he cried. "If there had not been some unfair
play, the Doctor would never have disappeared without first telling me.
He has many times entrusted me with his secrets."
"I quite believe that he would have telegraphed or written," she said.
"He looked upon you as his best friend in London."
"And, Marion, this very fact causes me to suspect foul play," he said,
the recollection of that fugitive in the night flashing across his
brain. "What do you, in the light of this secret knowledge, suspect?"
Her lips were closed tightly, and there was a strange look in her eyes.
"I believe, Max," she replied, in a low, hard voice, "that something
terrible must have happened to Maud!"
"Did she apprehend something?"
"I cannot tell. She confessed to me something under a bond of secrecy.
Before I tell you I must consult Charlie--the man she loved so dearly."
"But are we not lovers, Marion?" he asked, in a low intense voice.
"Cannot you tell me what she said, in order that I may institute
inquiries at once. Delay may mean the escape of the assassin if there
really has been foul play."
"I cannot betray Maud's confidence, Max," was her calm answer.
This response of hers struck him as implying that Maud had confessed
something not very creditable to herself, something which she, as a
woman, hesitated to tell him. If this were actually true, however, why
should she reveal the truth to Maud's lover? Would she not rather hide
it from him?
"But you will not see Charlie for months," he exclaimed, in dismay.
"What are we to do in the meantime?"
"We can only wait," she answered. "I cannot break my oath to my
friend."
"Then you took an oath not to repeat what she told you?"
"She told me something amazing concerning--"
And she hesitated.
"Concerning herself," he added. "Well?"
"It was a confession, Max--a--a terrible confession. I had not a wink
of sleep last night for her words rang in my ears, and her face, wild
and haggard, haunted me in the darkness. Ah! it is beyond credence--
horrible!--but--but, Max--leave me. These people are noticing us. I
will see you to-night, where you like. Only go--go! I can't bear to
talk of it! Poor Maud! What that confession must have cost her! And
why? Ah, I see it all now! Because--because she knew that her end was
near!"