"Hasn't Boileau said that all men are fools, and, spite of all their
pains, they differ from each other only more or less, I'm a fool--a
silly, cowardly ass, scenting danger where there is none. What could
Max prove after all? No! When I return to London I'll go and face him.
The reason I didn't go to Servia is proved by Statham himself. Of
excuses I'm never at a loss. It's an awkward position, I admit, but I
must wriggle out of it, as I've wriggled before. Statham's peril seems
to me even greater than my own, and, moreover, he asks me to do
something that is impossible. He doesn't know--he never dreams the
truth; and, what's more, he must never know. Otherwise, I--I must--"
And instinctively his hand passed over his hip-pocket, where reposed the
handy plated revolver which he always carried.
Presently he found himself again in front of the Central Station Hotel,
and, entering, spent an hour full of anxious reflection prior to turning
in. If any had seen him in the silence of that hotel room they would
have at once declared him to be a man with a secret, as indeed he was.
Next morning he rose pale and haggard, surprised at himself when he
looked at the mirror; but when, at eleven o'clock, he took his seat in
the directors' office at the neat Clyde and Motherwell Locomotive Works
his face had undergone an entire change. He was the calm, keen business
man who, as secretary and agent of the great Samuel Statham, had power
to deal with the huge financial interests involved.
The firm had a large contract for building express locomotives for the
Italian railways, lately taken over by the State, and the first business
was to interview the manager and sub-manager, together with the two
engineers sent from Italy, regarding some details of extra cost of
construction.
The work of the Clyde and Motherwell Company was always excellent. They
turned out locomotives which could well bear comparison with any of the
North-Western, Great Northern, or Nord of France, both as to finish,
power, speed, and smoothness of running. Indeed, to railways in every
part of the world, from Narvik, within the Arctic circle, to New
Zealand, Clyde and Motherwell engines were running with satisfaction,
thanks to the splendid designs of the chief engineer, Duncan Macgregor,
the white-bearded old Scot, who at that moment was seated with Statham's
representative.
The conference between the engineers of the Italian _ferrovia_ and the
managers was over, and old Macgregor, who had been engineer for years to
Cowan and Drummond, who owned the works before Statham had extended them
and turned them into the huge Clyde and Motherwell works, still
remained.
He was a broad-speaking Highlander, a native of Killin, on Loch Tay,
whose services had long ago been coveted by the London and North-Western
Railway Company, on account of his constant improvements in express
engines, but who always refused, even though offered a larger salary to
go across the border and forsake the firm to whom, forty years ago, he
had been apprenticed by his father, a small farmer.
As a Scotsman, he believed in Glasgow. It was, in his opinion, the only
place where could be built locomotives that would stand the wear and
tear of a foreign or colonial line. An engine that was cleaned and
looked after like a watch, as they were on the English or Scotch main
lines, was easily turned out, he was fond of saying; but when it became
a question of hauling power, combined with speed and strength to
withstand hard wear and neglect, it was a very different matter.
Managers and sub-managers, secretaries and accountants there might be,
gentlemen who wore black coats and went out to dine in evening clothes,
but the actual man at the head of affairs at those great works was
Duncan Macgregor--the short, thick-set man, in a shabby suit of grey
tweed, who sat there closeted with Rolfe.
"You wrote to London asking to see me, Macgregor," exclaimed the young
man. "We're always pleased to hear any suggestions you've got to make,
I assure you," said Charlie, pleasantly. "Have a cigarette?" and he
pushed the big box over to the man who sat on the other side of the
table.
"Thank ye, no, Mr Rolfe, sir. I'm better wanting it," replied
Macgregor, in his broad tongue. And then, with a preliminary cough, he
said "I--I want very badly to speak with Mr Statham."
"Whatever you say to me, Macgregor, I will tell him."
"I want to speak to him ma'sel'."
"I'm afraid that's impossible. He sees nobody--except once a week in
the city, and then only for two hours."
"'E would'na see me--eh?" asked the man, whose designs had brought the
firm to the forefront in the trade.
"I fear it would be impossible. You would go to London for nothing.
I'm his private secretary, you know; and anything that you tell me I
shall be pleased to convey to him."
"But, mon, I want to see 'im ma'sel'!"
"That can't be managed," declared Rolfe. "This business is left to Mr
Smale and myself. Mr Statham controls the financial position, but
details are left to me, in conjunction with Smale and Hamilton. Is it
concerning the development of the business that you wish to see Mr
Statham?"
"No, it ain't. It concerns Mr Statham himself, privately."
Rolfe pricked up his ears.
"Then it's a matter which you do not wish to discuss with me?" he said.
"Remember that Mr Statham has no business secrets from me. All his
private correspondence passes through my hands."
"I know all that, Mr Rolfe," Macgregor answered, with impatience; "but
I must, an' I will, see Mr Statham! I'm coming to London to-morrow to
see him."
"My dear sir," laughed Rolfe, "it's utterly useless! Why, Mr Statham
has peers of the realm calling to see him, and he sends out word that
he's not at home."
"Eh! 'E's a big mon, I ken; but when 'e knows ma' bizniss e'll verra
soon see me," replied the bearded old fellow, in confidence.
"But is your business of such a very private character?" asked Rolfe.
"Aye, it is."
"About the projected strike--eh? Well, I can tell you at once what his
attitude is towards the men, without you going up to London. He told me
a few days ago to say that if there was any trouble, he'd close down the
works entirely for six months, or a year, if need be. He won't stand
any nonsense."
"An' starve the poor bairns--eh?" mentioned the old engineer, who had
grown white in the service of the firm. "Ay, when it was Cowan and
Drummond they wouldna' ha' done that! I remember the strike in '82, an'
how they conciliated the men. But it was na' aboot the strike at all I
was wanting to see Mr Statham. It was aboot himself."
"Himself! What does he concern you? You've never met him. He's never
been in Glasgow in his life."
"Whether I've met 'im or no is my own affair, Mr Rolfe," replied the
old fellow, sticking his hairy fist into his jacket pocket. "I want to
see 'im now, an' at once. I shall go to the London office an' wait till
'e comes."
"And when he comes he'll be far too busy to see you," the secretary
declared. "So, my dear man, don't spend money unnecessarily in going up
to London, I beg of you."
By the old man's attitude Rolfe scented that something was amiss, and
set himself to discover what it was and report to his master.
"Is there any real dissatisfaction in the works?" he asked Macgregor,
after a brief pause.
"There was a wee bittie, but it's a' passed away."
"Then it is not concerning the works that you want to see Mr Statham?"
"Nay, mon, not at all."
"Nor about any new patent?"
"Nay."
Rolfe was filled with wonder. The attitude of the old fellow was
sphinx-like and yet he seemed confident that the millionaire would see
him when he applied for an interview. For a full half-hour they
chatted, but canny Macgregor told his questioner nothing--nothing more
than that he was about to go to London to have a talk with the great
financier upon some important matter which closely concerned him.
Therefore by the West Coast evening express, Rolfe left Glasgow for the
south, full of wonder as to what the white-bearded old fellow meant by
his covert insinuations and his proud confidence in the millionaire's
good offices. There was something there which merited investigation--of
that he was convinced.