That same Sunday evening, at midnight, in a cane chair in the lounge of
the Central Station Hotel, in Glasgow, Charlie Rolfe sat idly smoking a
cigar.
Sunday in Glasgow is always a dismal day. The weather had been grey and
depressing, but he had remained in the hotel, busy with correspondence.
He had arrived there on Saturday upon some urgent business connected
with that huge engineering concern, the Clyde and Motherwell Locomotive
Works, in which old Sam Statham held a controlling interest, but as the
manager was away till Monday, he had been compelled to wait until his
return.
The matter which he was about to decide involved the gain or loss of
some 25,000 pounds, and a good deal of latitude old Statham had allowed
him in his decision. Indeed, it was Rolfe who practically ran the big
business. He reported periodically to Statham, and the latter was
always satisfied. During the last couple of years, by his clever
finance, Rolfe had made much larger profits with smaller expenditure,
even though his drastic reforms had very nearly caused a strike among
the four thousand hands employed.
He had spent a most miserable day--a grey day, full of bitter reflection
and of mourning over the might-have-beens. The morning he had idled
away walking through Buchanan Street and the other main thoroughfares,
where all the shops were closed and where the general aspect was
inexpressibly dismal. In the afternoon he had taken a cab and gone for
a long drive alone to while away the hours, and now, after dinner, he
was concluding one of the most melancholy days of all his life.
There were one or two other men in the lounge, keen-faced men of
commercial aspect, who were discussing, over their cigars, prices,
freights, and other such matters. In the corner was a small party of
American men and women, stranded for the day while on their round tour
of Scotland--the West Highlands, the Trossachs, Loch Lomond, Stirling
Castle, the Highlands, and the rest--anxious for Monday to come, so as
to be on the move again.
Rolfe stretched his legs, and from his corner surveyed the scene through
the smoke from his cigar. He tried to be interested in the people about
him, but it was impossible. Ever and anon the words of old Sam Statham
rang in his ears. If the house of Statham--which, after all, seemed to
be but a house of cards--was to be saved, it must be saved at the
sacrifice of Maud Petrovitch!
Why? That question he had asked himself a thousand times that day. The
only reply was that the charming half-foreign girl held old Statham's
secret. But how could she? As far as he knew, they had only met once,
years ago, when she was but a child.
And Statham, the elderly melancholy man who controlled so many
interests, whose every action was noted by the City, and whose firm was
believed to be as safe as the Bank of England, actually asked him to
sacrifice her honour. What did he mean? Did he suggest that he was to
wilfully compromise her in the eyes of the world?
"Ah, if he knew--if he only knew!" murmured Rolfe to himself, his face
growing pale and hard-set. "Sam Statham believes himself clever, and so
he is! Yet in this game I think I am his equal." And he smoked on in
silence, his frowning countenance being an index to his troubled mind.
He was reviewing the whole of the curious situation. In a few years he
had risen from a harum-scarum youth to be the private secretary,
confidant, and frequent adviser to one of the wealthiest men in England.
Times without number, old Sam, sitting in his padded writing-chair in
Park Lane, had commended him for his business acumen and foresight.
Once, by a simple suggestion, daring though it was, Statham had, in a
few hours, made ten thousand pounds, and, with many words of praise the
dry, old fellow took out his chequebook and drew a cheque as a little
present to his clever young secretary. Charlie Rolfe was however,
unscrupulous, as a good many clever men of business are. In the world
of commerce the dividing-line between unscrupulousness and what the City
knows as smartness is invisible. So Marion's brother was dubbed a smart
man at Statham Brothers' and in those big, old-fashioned, and rather
gloomy offices he was envied as being "the governor's favourite."
Charlie intended to get on. He saw other men make money in the City by
the exercise of shrewdness and commonsense, and he meant to do the same.
The business secrets of old Sam Statham were all known to him, and he
had more than once been half tempted to take into partnership some
financier who, armed with the information he could give, could make many
a brilliant coup, forestalling even old Statham himself. Up to the
present, however, he had never found anybody he could implicitly trust.
Of sharks he knew dozens, clever, energetic men, he admitted, but there
was not one of these who would not give away their own mother when it
came to making a thousand profit. So he was waiting--waiting until he
found the man who could "go in" with him and make a fortune.
Again, he was reflecting upon old Sam's appeal to him to save him.
"Suppose he knew," he murmured again. "Suppose--" and his eyes were
fixed upon the painted ceiling of the lounge.
A moment later he sighed impatiently, saying, "Phew! how stifling it is
here!" and, rising, took up his hat and went down the stairs and out
into the broad street to cool his fevered brain. He was haunted by a
recollection--the tragic recollection of that night when the Doctor and
his daughter had so mysteriously disappeared.
"I wonder," he said aloud, at last, "I wonder if Max ever dreams the
extraordinary truth? Yet how can he?--what impressions can he have? He
must be puzzled--terribly puzzled, but he can have no clue to what has
actually happened!" and then he was again silent, still walking
mechanically along the dark half-deserted business street. "But suppose
the truth was really known!--suppose it were discovered? What then?
Ah!" he gasped, staring straight before him, "what then?"
For a full hour he wandered the half-deserted streets of central
Glasgow, till he found himself down by the Clyde bank, and then
re-traced his steps to the hotel, hardly knowing whither he went, so
full was he of the terror which daily, nay, hourly, obsessed him.
Whether Max Barclay had actually discovered him or not meant to him his
whole future--nay his very life.
"I wonder if I could possibly get at the truth through Marion?" he
thought to himself. "If he really suspects me he might possibly
question her with a view of discovering my actual movements on that
night. Would it be safe to approach her? Or would it be safer to
boldly face Max, and if he makes any remark, to deny it?"
Usually he was no coward. He believed in facing the music when there
was any to face. One of the greatest misfortunes of honest folks is
that they are cowards.