Weeks had dragged by. To Max Barclay they had been weeks of keen
anxiety and unceasing search to discover traces of his lost beloved.
Once, and only once, had he seen Jean Adam, against whom Sam Statham had
warned him. He had met the man of brilliant financial ideas by
appointment at lunch at the Savoy, and had told him plainly that he had
reconsidered the whole matter of the Turkish concession, and had decided
to have nothing to do with it.
His excuse was lack of funds at that moment. To the old millionaire he
owed a good deal for giving him the "tip" regarding the plausible
Anglo-Frenchman. Adam, alias Adams, received Max's decision without the
alteration of a muscle of his face. He was a perfect actor, and
betrayed no sign of surprise or of chagrin.
"Well, my dear fellow," he remarked, raising his glass of Brauneberger
and contemplating it before placing it to his lips; "you're losing the
chance of a lifetime. If Baron Hirsch had been alive he wouldn't have
allowed such a thing to slip. When old Statham knows of it he'll move
heaven and earth to come in."
Max was silent. He did not allow his companion to know that Statham had
been responsible for his refusal to join in the project.
"I'm sorry, too," he said. "But just now I'm rather pressed. I was
hard hit last week over those Siberians."
"But the money required is a mere bagatelle. I have mine ready."
"I regret," answered Max, "but my decision is final."
"Very well, my dear fellow," replied Adam lightly. "I don't want to
persuade you. There are a thousand men in the City who'll be ready to
put up money to-morrow morning."
And the pair finished their luncheon and parted, Adam, of course,
entirely unsuspicious of the part Statham had played in upsetting his
deeply-laid plans.
To every address which Marion's brother had furnished he had gone at
post-haste, only to draw blank every time. Charlie had, at Statham's
instructions, gone first to Constantinople, then to Odessa and Batoum,
after which he had returned direct to London.
In Odessa he had been met by a special messenger from the London office
bearing a number of documents, and his business in that city had
occupied him nearly a fortnight. Therefore it was early in October
when, arriving by the evening train at Charing Cross from Paris, he took
a cab straight to Park Lane.
In greeting him, old Sam was rather curious in his manner, he thought.
There was a lack of cordiality. Usually, when he came off a long
journey, the old fellow ordered Levi to bring the decanter of whisky and
a syphon. But on this occasion the head of the great financial house
merely sat in his chair at his desk and heard his secretary's report
without even suggesting that he might be fagged by his rush across
Europe.
Rolfe related, briefly and plainly, the various points upon which he had
failed, and those upon which he had been successful. Some of his
decisions had brought many thousands of pounds into the already
overflowing coffers of Statham Brothers, and yet the old man made no
sign. He heard all without any comment save now and then a grunt of
satisfaction.
The younger man could not disguise from himself the fact that the
millionaire was not himself. His face was paler and more transparent,
while the green-shaded electric lamp shed upon it a hue that was unreal
and ghastly. Old Levi, too, as he flitted in and out like a
white-breasted shadow, seemed to regard him with unusual suspicion and
distrust.
What could it all mean?
He looked from one to the other in puzzled surprise.
He was unaware that only on the previous night a thin, dark, bearded man
had been ushered into that very room and had sat for two hours with the
great financier. His countenance, his gestures, the cut of his clothes,
all showed plainly that he was not English. Besides, the consultation
was in French, a language which old Sam knew fairly well.
That man was a spy, and he was from Belgrade.
From the moment Charlie Rolfe had descended at the station to the moment
he had left it, secret observation had been kept upon his movements.
And to furnish the report to his master the spy had travelled from
Servia to London. Samuel Statham trusted nobody. Even his most
confidential assistant was spied upon, and his own reports compared with
those of a spy's.
More than once, as Charlie Rolfe, all unconscious of the surveillance
upon him, related what had occurred in King Peter's capital, the old man
smiled--in disbelief. This the younger man could not understand. He
was in ignorance of the great conspiracy in progress, or of the
millionaire's ulterior motives. The old man's face was sphinx-like, as
it ever was--a countenance in which no single trait was visible, neither
was there human joy or human sympathy. It was the face of a statue--the
face of a man whose greed and avarice had rendered him pitiless.
And yet, strangely enough, this very man was, to Charlie's knowledge, a
philanthropist in secret, giving away thousands yearly to the deserving
poor without any thought of laudatory comment of either press or public.
Samuel Statham was not well; of that Charlie felt assured. He noticed
the slight trembling of the thin white hands, the fixed, anxious look in
his eyes, the curl of the thin grey lips, all of which caused him
anxiety. In his ignorance he had grown to be greatly fond of the
eccentric old man who pulled so many of the financial wires of Europe
and whose word could cause the stock markets to fluctuate. A scribbled
word of his that night would be felt in Wall Street on the morrow,
whilst the pulses of the Bourse of Berlin, Paris, and Vienna were ready
at any moment to respond instantly to the transactions of Statham
Brothers, often so gigantic as to cause a sensation.
Presently Sam Statham commenced his cross-questioning regarding the
exact situation in Belgrade, the attitude of the Minister-President, and
the strength of the Opposition in that wooden shed-like
Parliament-house, the Skuptchina, of whom he had seen, and what
information he had gathered regarding the tariff-war with Austria.
To all the questions Charlie replied in a manner which showed him to be
perfectly alive to all the requirements of the firm. To those in Old
Broad Street, City, secret information regarding the future policy of
Servia means the gain or loss of many thousands, and though during his
sojourn in the City of the White Fortress his mind had been so perturbed
over his own private affairs, he had certainly not neglected those of
the great firm who employed him.
The old man gave little sign of approbation, and after nearly an hour
suddenly dismissed him abruptly, saying:
"Very well. You're tired, I expect. You'd better go to dinner. I'll
see you in the morning."
"There's another matter I wanted to speak to you about," Charlie said,
still remaining in his chair, watching the old fellow as he turned
towards his desk and drew some papers on to his blotting-pad.
"Eh? What?" asked the old fellow sharply, turning again to the other.
"You did very well in Odessa. I was very pleased to receive that last
cable from you. Souvaroff grew frightened evidently--afraid I should
withdraw and let the whole business go into air." And he chuckled to
himself in delight at how he had worsted a powerful Russian banker who
was his enemy.
"It was not of that I wish to speak," remarked Rolfe quietly. "It was
with regard to my sister Marion."
The old fellow started uneasily at his secretary's words. "Eh? Your
sister?" he said. "What about her?"
"She's left Cunnington's," Charlie said. "According to what I hear,
she's been discharged in some disgrace."
"Ah! yes," was the old man's response, as though recalling the fact.
"I've heard so. Your friend Barclay came to see me, and told me some
long story about her. I wrote to Cunnington, but I haven't seen any
reply from him. It may have gone to the office."
"My sister has left Oxford Street--and hidden herself, in disgrace. We
can't find her."
"Then if you can't find her, Rolfe, I don't see how I can assist you,"
remarked the elder man. "Girls entertain strange fancies, you know--
especially the sentimental-minded. Been reading novels, perhaps--eh?
Was she given to that?"
"The girls at Cunnington's have little time for reading," he said,
piqued at Statham's careless manner. Hitherto he had believed that the
old man was genuinely interested in her, but he now saw that her future
was to him nothing. He was too much occupied in piling up wealth to
trouble his head over a girl's distress, even though that girl might be
the sister of the man who by his acute business foresight often won for
him thousands in a single day.
Charlie rose, full of suppressed anger. He did not notice the look of
anxiety and shame upon the old man's face, for his head was bowed
beneath the lamplight as he pretended to fumble with his papers.
"Perhaps your sister was tired of the place--too much hard work.
Thought to better herself."
"My sister was, like myself, much indebted to you, Mr Statham," was
Rolfe's reply. "If she has been discharged in disgrace, it is, I feel
confident, through no fault of her own. Therefore, I beg of you, to ask
fit. Cunnington to make full inquiry."
"What is the use? It is Cunnington himself who engages the hands and
discharges them," replied Statham evasively. "I can't interfere."
"But," Rolfe argued, "for the sake of my sister's good name you will
surely do me this one small favour?"
"I have already seen Barclay, who says he's engaged to her. Call on
him, and he'll explain what I have already said and the inquiry I have
already made," replied the old man in growing impatience.
"But weeks have gone by, and you've received no reply from Cunnington.
He does not usually treat you with such discourtesy."
"I can only think that he acted as his own judgment directed him," the
millionaire replied. "You know how strict the rules are that govern
shop-assistants, and I suppose he could not favour your sister any more
than the others."
"Marion wanted no favours," he declared. "She never asked one of
anybody at Oxford Street. She only desires justice and troth--and I
mean to have them for her."
"Then go and see Cunnington for yourself," snapped the old man. "I've
done all I can do. If your sister chooses to go away and hide herself,
how can I help it?"
"But she was sent away?" cried Rolfe in anger. "Sent away in disgrace,
and I intend to discover what charge there is against her--and the truth
concerning it?"
"Dear me, Rolfe!" snapped the old man impatiently. "Do go home, for
heaven's sake. You're tired and hungry--consequently out of temper."
"Yes," he cried, "I am out of temper because you refuse to render my
sister justice! But she shall have it--she shall?"
And he stalked out of the room and closed the door noisily behind him.
Then, after the door had closed, old Sam raised his head, and his eyes
followed the young man. In them was a look such as was seldom seen
there--a look of double cunning which spoke mutely of false and
double-dealing.