A few nights later Max Barclay was seated in the stalls of the Empire
Theatre with Marion.
They never went to the legitimate theatre because she had no
evening-dress. Even to be seen in one would have caused comment among
her fellow employes at Cunnington's. The girls were never very
charitable to each other, for in the pernicious system of "living-in"
there is no privacy or home life, no sense of responsibility or of
freedom.
The average London shop girl has but little leisure and little rest.
Chronically over-tired, she cares little to go out of an evening after
the long shop hours, and looks forward to Sunday as the day when she can
read in bed till noon if she chooses, snooze again in the afternoon, and
perhaps go to a cafe in the evening. It was so with Marion. The sales
were on, and there were "spiffs," or premiums, placed by Mr Warner upon
some out-of-date goods which it was every girl's object to sell and thus
earn the commission. So she was working very hard, and already held
quite a respectable number of tickets representing "spiffs."
In a dark blue skirt, white silk blouse and black hat, she looked
extremely pretty and modest as she sat beside her lover in the second
row of the stalls, watching the ballet with its tuneful music, clever
groupings, and phantasmagoria of colour. She glanced at the watch upon
her wrist, and saw that it was nearly ten o'clock. In half an hour she
would have to be "in."
The bondage of his well-beloved galled Max, yet he could say nothing.
Her life was the same as that of a hundred thousand other girls in
London. Indeed, was she not far better off that those poor girls who
came up from their country homes to serve a year or two's drudgery
without payment in order to learn the art and mystery of "serving a
customer"--girls who were orphans and without funds, and who very soon
found the actual necessity of having a little pocket-money for dress and
for something with which to relish the stale bread and butter doled out
to them.
The public have never yet adequately realised the hardships and tyranny
of shop-life, where man is but a mere machine, liable to get the "sack"
at a moment's notice, and where woman is but an ill-fed, overworked
drudge, liable at any moment to be thrown out penniless upon the great
world of London.
Some day ere long the revelation will come. There are certain big
houses in London with pious shareholders and go-to-meeting directors
which will earn the opprobrium of the whole British public when the
naked truth regarding their female assistants is exposed. In "the
trade" it is known, and one day there will arise a man bolder and more
fearless than the rest, who will speak the truth, and, moreover, prove
it.
If in the meantime you want to know the truth concerning shop-life, ask
the director of any of the numerous rescue societies in London. What
you will be told will, I assure you, open your eyes.
The couple of hours Max had spent with Marion proved delightful ones, as
they always were. Promenading in the lounge above were many
men-about-town whom he knew, and who, seeing him with the modest-looking
girl, smiled knowingly. They never guessed the truth--that he loved her
and intended to make her his wife.
"Charlie is back from Glasgow," she was saying. "He came to the shop
this afternoon to ask if I had seen you, and to explain how the other
night he, by a most fortunate circumstance, missed the Continental
train, for next morning Mr Statham wanted him to do some very important
business, and was delighted to find that he had not left. Another man
has gone out to the East."
"If he wanted to know my movements he might have called at Dover
Street," Max remarked thoughtfully, the recollection of that night in
Cromwell Road arising within him.
"He seemed very busy, and said he had not a moment to spare. He was
probably going north again. They have, he told me, some big order from
Italy at the locomotive works."
"I thought Statham couldn't do without him," remarked Max. "Nowadays,
however, he seems always travelling."
"He's awfully kind to me--gave me a five-pound note this afternoon."
"What did he say about me?" inquired Max.
"Oh! nothing very much. He asked me, among other things, whether I knew
where you were on the night of the disappearance of the Doctor and his
daughter."
Max started.
"And what did you reply?"
"That I hadn't the slightest idea. I never saw you that evening," was
the girl's frank response.
Her lover nodded thoughtfully. It was now plain that Charlie suspected
that he had detected him leaving the house and was endeavouring to
either confirm his suspicion or dismiss it.
"Did he tell you to-day where he was going?"
"Back to Glasgow, I believe--but only for two days."
Max was seated at the end of the second row of the stalls, and beyond
Marion were three or four vacant seats. At this juncture their
conversation was interrupted by a man in well-cut evening-dress, his
crush hat beneath his arms, advancing down the gangway and putting his
hand out heartily to Max, exclaiming--
"My dear Barclay! Excuse me, but I want very much a few words with you
to-night, on a matter of great importance." Then, glancing at Marion,
he added: "I trust that Mademoiselle will forgive this intrusion?"
The girl glanced at the new-comer, while her lover, taking the man's
hand, said--
"My dear Adam, I, too, wanted to see you, and intended to call
to-morrow. You are not intruding in the least. Here's a seat. Allow
me to introduce Miss Rolfe--Mr Jean Adam."
The man of double personality bowed again, and passing Marion and her
lover, seated himself at her side, commencing to chat merrily, and
explaining that he had recognised Max from the circle above. He had, it
appeared, been to Dover Street an hour before, and Max's man had told
him where his master was spending the evening.
Marion rather liked him. Max had already told her of this Frenchman who
spoke English so well, and with whom he was doing business. In his
speech he had the air and polish of the true cosmopolitan, and he also
possessed a keen sense of humour.
Presently Marion, glancing again at her watch, declared that she must
leave. Max scarcely ever took her home. He always put her into a cab,
and she descended at the corner of the street off Oxford Street, where
Cunnington's assistants had their big barrack-like dwelling, and walked
home alone. It was her wish to do so, and he respected it.
Therefore all three rose, and Max went outside with her and put her into
a cab, promising to meet her on the following evening. In the bustle of
Leicester Square at that hour, he could not kiss her; but as their hands
grasped, their eyes met in a glance which both knew was one of trust and
mutual affection.
And so they parted, Max returning to the lounge where the Frenchman,
Jean Adam, _alias_ the Englishman John Adams, awaited him.
They had a drink at the American bar, and then promenaded up and down in
the gay crowd that nightly assembles in that popular resort. Max nodded
to one or two men he knew--clubmen and _habitues_ like himself, and
then, after the show was over, they took a cab down to the Savoy to
supper.
The gay restaurant, with its crimson carpet and white decorations was
crowded. To Gustave, who allotted the tables, Max was well-known,
therefore a table for two in the left-hand corner of the big room--the
table he usually occupied--was instantly secured, and the couple who had
engaged were moved elsewhere. In the season Max had supper there on an
average three nights a week, for at the Savoy one meets all one's
friends, and there is always music, life, and brightness after the
theatre, until the licensing regulations cut off the merriment so
abruptly.
That night was no exception. The place was filled to overflowing with
the smart world, together with many American visitors, the latest
musical-comedy actresses and their male appendages, country cousins, men
whose names were household words, and women whose pasts had appeared in
black and white in the newspapers. A strange crowd, surely. Half the
people were known to each other by sight, if not personally, and the
other half were mere onlookers, filled with curiosity when Lord This or
Dolly That were pointed out to them.
Max and Jean Adam were seated with a bottle of Krug between them when
the former exclaimed--
"Well, how does our business go?"
"That's the reason I wanted to see you to-night," was his companion's
reply with just a slight French accent. "I had some news from
Constantinople to-day--confidential news from the Palace," he added in
an undertone, bending across the table. "I want you to read it and give
your opinion." And producing an envelope and letter on thin paper
closely written in French, he handed it across to Barclay, as he added:
"Now what is written there is the bed-rock fact, I know from independent
inquiries I have made in an entirely different quarter."
Between mouthfuls of the perfectly-cooked _filet de sole_ placed before
him Max read the letter carefully. It was signed "your devoted friend
Osman," and was evidently from a Turkish official at the Yildiz Kiosk.
Briefly, it was to the effect that the _irade_ of the Sultan for the
construction of the railway from Nisch in Servia to San Giovanni di
Medua, on the Adriatic, was in the hands of Muhil Pasha, one of his
Majesty's most intimate officials, and had been granted to him for
services rendered in the Asiatic provinces.
Muhil had offered to part with it for twelve thousand pounds sterling,
and that the agent of a French Company had arrived in Constantinople in
order to treat with him. Muhil, however, had no love for the French,
since he was Ottoman Ambassador in Paris a few years ago, and got into
disgrace there, hence he would be much more ready to sell to an English
syndicate.
The letter of Osman concluded by urging Adam to send instructions at
once to a certain box at the British post-office in Constantinople, and
to if possible secure the valuable document which would enable a line of
railway to be built which would pay its shareholders enormously.
"Well," exclaimed Max, as he replaced the letter in its envelope, noting
the surcharge in black--"1 piastre"--upon the blue English stamp. "What
shall you do?"
"Do? Why we must get the twelve thousand, of course. It's a mere
bagatelle compared with the magnitude of the business. I've got some
reports in my overcoat pocket which I'll show you after supper. We must
get the thing through, my dear Barclay. There's a big fortune in it for
both of us--a huge fortune. Why, for the past ten years every diplomat
at the Sublime Porte has been at work to get it through, but has been
unsuccessful. The Sultan has always refused to let the line run through
Turkish territory, fearing lest it should be used for military transport
in the event of another war. His Majesty is not particularly partial to
Austria, Servia, or Bulgaria, you know," he laughed.
"And hardly surprising, in view of past events, eh?" exclaimed Max,
entirely ignorant of the real character of this man, who seemed a smart
man of business combined with a genial companion. Adam was a
past-master in the art of fraud. He did not press the point, but merely
went on with his supper, swallowed a glass of champagne, and turned the
conversation by admiring the graceful carriage of the head of a girl
sitting near with a wreath of forget-me-nots across her fluffy fair
hair.
"Yes," replied Max. "The poise of her head is full of grace, but--well,
her face is like the carved handle of an umbrella!" Whereat his
companion laughed heartily. Barclay was full of quaint expressions, and
of a quiet but biting sarcasm. Some of his _bons mots_ had been
repeated from month to mouth in the clubs until they became almost
popular sayings. He was now in love entirely and devotedly with Marion,
and no other woman of the thousand who passed before his eyes and smiled
into his face had the least attraction for him.
A moment later a pretty girl in pink, the Honourable Eva Townley, who
was at supper with her mother and same friends, bowed to him and
laughed, while another woman, the rather go-ahead wife of a leader at
the Chancery Bar, waved a menu at him.
Society knew Max, and many a woman had set her cap at him, hoping to
capture the tall, well-set-up and easy-going young fellow, together with
the ease and comfort which his substantial estates would afford.
Max, however, had done a few years of town life. He had become _blase_
and nauseated. Since he had met Marion Rolfe the quiet, modest,
unassuming and hard-working shop-assistant, the _haute monde_ bored him
more than ever. He went only where he was compelled, yet he nowadays
preferred the cheap Italian restaurant and Marion's society to the
tables of the rich with their ugly women striving to fascinate, and
their small-talk of scandal, gossip and cruel innuendo.
There is surely no world in the world like that of London--nothing so
complex, so tragic, and yet so grimly humorous, so soul-killing, and yet
so reckless as our little, lax world of vanity and display that calls
itself Society, the world which the _nouveau riche_ are ever seeking to
enter by the back-door, and which the suburbs rush to see portrayed upon
the stage of the theatre.
Everywhere the manner and morals of Mayfair are aped nowadays. Mrs
Browne-Smythe, the City clerk's wife of tattling Tooting, has her "day,"
and gives her bridge-parties just as does the Duchess of Dorsetshire in
Grosvenor Square; and Mrs Claude Greene, the wife of the wholesale
butcher, who was once a barmaid near the Meat Market, and now lives in
matrimonial felicity in cliquey Clapham, "requests the company of" upon
the self-same cards and with the self-same formula as the wife of Jimmy
James the South African magnate in Park Lane.
Max, glad that supper was over, rose and walked with his friend out into
the big lounge where the Roumanian band were playing weird gipsy
melodies, and sat at one of the little tables to smoke and sip Grand
Marnier cordon rouge, being joined a few moments later by a couple of
men whom he knew at the club, and who appeared to be at a loose end.
At last the lights were turned down as signal that in five minutes it
would be closing time, and then rifling, Max, ignorant of the ingenious
plot, invited his friend Adam round to Dover Street for a final smoke.