"Miss Rolfe has left the firm's employ, sir."
"Left--left Cunnington's?" gasped Max Barclay, staring open-mouthed at
Mr Warner, the buyer.
"Yes, sir. She left suddenly yesterday morning," repeated the dapper
little man with the pen behind his ear.
"But this is most extraordinary--to leave at a moment's notice! I
thought she was so very comfortable here. She always spoke so kindly of
you, and for the consideration with which you always treated her."
"It was very kind of her, I'm sure," replied the buyer; "but it is the
rule here--a moment's notice on either side."
"But why? Why has she left?"
Warner hesitated. He, of course, knew the truth, but he was not anxious
to speak it.
"Some little misunderstanding, I think."
"With you?"
"Oh, dear no. She was called down to the counting-house yesterday
morning, and she did not return."
"Then she's been discharged--eh?" asked Max in a hard voice.
"I believe so, sir. At least, it would appear so."
"And are they in the habit of discharging assistants in this manner--
throwing them out of a home and out of employment at a moment's notice?
Is Mr Cunnington himself aware of it?"
"It would be Mr Cunnington himself who discharged her," was the buyer's
answer. "No other person has authority either to engage or discharge."
"But there must be a reason for her dismissal!" exclaimed Max.
"Certainly. But only Mr Cunnington knows that."
"Can I see him?"
"Well, at this hour he's generally very busy indeed; but if you go down
to the counting-house in the next building, and ask for him, he may give
you a moment."
"Thank you, Mr Warner," Barclay said, a little abruptly, and, turning
on his heel, left the department.
"She hasn't told him evidently," remarked one girl-assistant to the
other. "I'm sorry Rolfie's gone. She wasn't half a bad sort. She was
old Warner's favourite, too, or her young gentleman would never have
been allowed to talk to her in the shop. If you or I had had a young
man to come and see us as she had, we'd have been fired out long ago."
"I wonder who her young man really is," remarked the second girl,
watching him as he strode out, a lithe figure in a well-cut suit of grey
tweeds.
"Well, he's a thorough gentleman, just like her brother," remarked her
companion. "I saw him in his motor-boat up at Hampton the Sunday before
last. He's completely gone on her. I wonder what'll happen now. I
don't think much of the new girl; do you? Does her hair awfully badly."
Unconscious of the criticism he had evoked, Max Barclay descended the
stairs, passed through the long shops--crowded as they always were in
the afternoon--into the adjoining building, and sought audience of the
titular head of the great firm.
After waiting for some time in an outer office he was shown in. The
moment he asked his question Mr Cunnington grasped the situation.
"I very much regret, sir, that it is not my habit to give information to
a second party concerning the dismissal of any of my assistants. If the
young lady applies for her character, she is perfectly entitled to have
it."
"But I apply for her character," said Max promptly.
"You are not an employer, sir. She has not applied to you for a
situation."
"No; but I may surely know the reason she has left your service?" Max
pointed out. "Her brother, who is abroad just now, is my most intimate
friend."
Mr Cunnington stroked his dark beard thoughtfully, but shook his head,
saying:
"I much regret, Mr Barclay, that I am unable to give you the
information you seek. Would it not be better to ask the young lady
herself?"
"But she has left, and I have no idea of her address!" exclaimed
Barclay. "Can you furnish me with it?"
The head of Cunnington's, Limited, took up the telephone receiver and
asked for a certain Mr Hughes, of whom he made inquiry if Miss Rolfe
had left her address.
There was a wait of a few moments, then Mr Cunnington turned and said:
"The young lady left no address. She was asked, but refused to give
one."
Max's heart sank within him. She had been dismissed at an instant's
notice, and was lost to him. He turned upon Mr Cunnington in quick
anger and said:
"So I am to understand that you refuse me all information concerning
her?"
"I merely adhere to my rule, sir. Any dismissal of my assistants is a
matter between myself and the person dismissed. I am not called upon to
give details or reasons to outsiders. I regret that I am very busy, and
must wish you good afternoon."
Max Barclay bit his lip. He did not like the brisk, business-ike air of
the man.
"I shall call upon Mr Statham, whom I happen to know," he said. "And I
shall invoke his aid."
"You are perfectly at liberty to do just as you like, my dear sir. Even
Mr Statham exercises no authority over the assistants in this
establishment. It is my own department and I brook no interference."
Max did not reply, but left the office and strode out into Oxford
Street, pushing past the crowd of women around the huge shop-windows
admiring the feminine finery there displayed so temptingly.
Marion--his Marion--had disappeared. She had been dismissed--in
disgrace evidently; probably for some petty fault or for breaking one of
the hundred rules by which every assistant was bound. He had always
heard Mr Cunnington spoken of as a most lenient, and even generous,
employer, yet his treatment of Marion had been anything but just or
humane.
When he thought of it his blood boiled. Charlie was away, he knew. He
had telephoned to his rooms that very morning, but his man had replied
that his master had left hurriedly for the Continent--for Paris, he
thought.
At the corner of Bond Street he halted, and glanced at his watch.
Should he try and find Charlie by telegraph or should he take the bull
by the horns and go and see old Sam Statham. His well-beloved had
disappeared. Would the old financier assist him to discover the truth?
He was well aware that for a comparative stranger to be deceived in that
big house in Park Lane was exceptional. Old Levi had his orders, and
few among the many callers ever placed their foot over the
carefully-guarded threshold. Still, he resolved to make the attempt,
and, with that object, jumped into a taxi-cab which happened at the
moment to be passing.
Alighting at the house, he presented his card to old Levi, who opened
the door, and asked the favour of a few moments' conversation with Mr
Statham? The old servant scrutinised the card closely, and took stock
of the visitor, who, noticing his hesitation, added: "Mr Statham will
remember me, I believe."
Levi asked him into the hall, with a dissatisfied grunt, and
disappeared, to return a few moments later, and usher the visitor into
the presence of the millionaire.
Old Samuel, who had been dozing over a newspaper in the his easy-chair
near the fireplace, rose, and, through his spectacles, regarded his
visitor with some suspicion. The blinds were drawn, shading the room
from the afternoon sun, therefore Max found the place was in comparative
darkness after the glare outside.
In a few moments, however, when his eyes grew accustomed to the
semi-darkness, he saw the old fellow wave his hand in the direction of a
chair, saying:
"I'm very glad you called, Mr Barclay--very glad. Indeed, curiously
enough, I intended to write to you only yesterday upon a business
matter, but I was too busy."
Barclay seated himself, full of surprise that the great financier should
wish to consult him upon any business matter.
"Well, Mr Statham," he said, "I may as well tell you at once that I am
here to seek your kind assistance and help in a purely personal matter--
a matter which closely concerns my own happiness."
Statham pricked up his ears. He knew what was coming. Marion Rolfe had
told him of her visit there.
"Well?" he asked coldly, in a changed manner.
"You possibly are unaware that I am engaged to be married to Marion
Rolfe, the sister of your secretary, a young lady in whom you were kind
enough to take an interest am obtain for her a situation at
Cunnington's."
The old man nodded, his countenance sphinx-like.
"The lady in question has been dismissed by Mr Cunnington at a moment's
notice, and he refuses to tell me the reason of his very remarkable
action. I want you to be good enough to obtain a response for me."
"And where is the young lady?" asked the wary Statham.
"Nobody knows. She would leave no address."
"Then you are unaware of her whereabouts?"
"She has disappeared."
"Extraordinary!" the old fellow remarked, reflecting deeply for a
moment.
"Yes. I cannot imagine why, in the circumstances, she has not written
to me," Max declared, the expression upon his face betraying his deep
distress.
"It is certainly somewhat strange," the old man agreed. "Girls at
Cunnington's are not often discharged in that manner. Cunnington
himself is always most lenient. Have you seen him?"
"Yes; and he absolutely refuses any information."
"In that case, Mr Barclay, I don't see very well how I can assist you.
The management and organisation of the concern are left to him, as
managing director. I really cannot interfere."
"But was it not through you that Marion, without previous experience or
apprenticeship, was engaged there?"
"Yes; I have some recollection of sending a line of recommendation to
Cunnington," was the millionaire's response. "But, of course, my
interest ended there. My secretary asked me to write the note, and I
did so."
"Then you really cannot obtain for me the information I desire?"
"But why are you so inquisitive--eh?" snapped the old man. "Surely the
lady will tell you the reason of her dismissal!"
"I don't know where she is."
"A fact which is--well--rather curious--shall we designate it?" the old
man remarked meaningly.
"You mean to imply that her instant dismissal has cast a slur upon her
character, and that she fears to meet me lest she be compelled to tell
me the truth?" he said slowly as the suggestion dawned upon him. "Ah!
I see. You refuse to help me, Mr Statham, because--because I love
her."
And his face became pale, hard-set, and determined.