Entering his chambers in Jermyn Street half an hour later, Rolfe was met
by the faithful Green, to whom he gave orders to "ring up" Mr Barclay
at Dover Street.
Then he went along to his room to wash and dress.
A few moments later Green came in, saying:
"Mr Barclay left town five days ago, sir. He's up at Kilmaronock."
His master made no reply for some moments. Then at last he said:
"Pack my suit-case, and 'phone to Euston to reserve me a seat to Perth
on the ten-five to-morrow morning."
"Yes, sir."
"And to everybody except my sister, if she calls, you don't know where
I've gone--you understand?"
"Perfectly, sir."
And the man set about packing up his master's traps.
"You may as well put in a dinner-coat Max may have friends," Rolfe said.
"Very well, sir."
His master dressed quickly and went alone to the club for a late dinner.
Most of his friends were away shooting, therefore he idled alone for an
hour over the paper and then returned to his chambers.
Next morning he scribbled a hasty note to Mr Statham, making an excuse
for his sudden absence, and directly after ten was seated in the Scotch
express travelling out of London.
At eight that evening he stepped out upon the big, dark station at
Perth, sent a telegram to the Crown Inn at Kilmaronock village for a
"machine," as a fly is called, and then took the slow branch line that
runs by Crieff and skirts Loch Earn to the head of Glen Ogle, where lay
the old castle and fine shooting of which Max Barclay was possessor.
A drive of three miles on the road beside Loch Voil brought him to the
lodge-gates, and then another mile up through the park he came to the
great portico of the castle.
It was nearly midnight. Lights were still in the billiard-room of the
fine old castellated mansion, which Max's father had modernised and
rendered so comfortable, and when Charlie rang, Burton, the butler,
could not suppress an exclamation of surprise.
In a few moments, however, Charlie burst into the room where Max and
five other men were playing "snooker" before retiring.
The host's surprise was great, but the visitor received a hearty
welcome, and an hour later, when the guests had gone to their rooms, the
two friends stood alone together in the long old-fashioned drawing-room
which, without a woman's artistic hand to keep things in order, was
rapidly going to decay.
A big wood fire blazed cheerfully in the wide old-fashioned grate, for
October evenings in the Highlands are damp and chill, and as the two men
stood before it they looked at one another, both hesitating to speak.
Across Charlie's mind flashed those suspicions which had oppressed him
in Belgrade. Was the man before him his enemy or his friend?
"Well," he blurted forth, "I've come straight up to see you, Max. I
only arrived home last night. I want to see you concerning Marion."
His companion's lips hardened.
"Marion!" he exclaimed. "I have done all I can. I've left no effort
untried. I have sought the aid of the best confidential inquiry agency
in London, and all to no avail. She's disappeared--as completely as
Maud has done!"
"Yes, I know," replied her brother, thrusting his hands deep into the
trousers-pockets of his blue serge travelling-suit. "I've seen
Statham."
"And so have I. He wrote to Cunnington's, but the latter has not
replied. I saw Cunnington myself."
"And what did he say?"
"The fellow refused to say anything," he replied in a hard tone.
Silence again fell between the pair.
The long, old-fashioned room, with its blue china, its chintz coverings,
its grand piano, and its bowls of autumn roses, though full of quaint
charm, was weird and unsuited to the home of a bachelor. Indeed,
Kilmaronock was a white elephant to Max. He received a fair rental from
the farms on the estate, but he never went near the place except for
sport for six weeks or so each autumn. The old place possessed some
bitter memories for him, for his mother had died there quite suddenly of
heart disease on the night of a large dinner-party. He was only
eighteen then, but he remembered it too well. It was that tragic memory
which had caused him to abandon the place except when he invited a few
of his friends to shoot over the estate.
"Let's go into my own room to talk," he suggested. "It's more cosy
there." As a man hates all drawing-rooms, so did Max Barclay detest
his. It was for him full of recollections of his dear dead mother.
And so they passed along the corridor to Max's own little den in the
east wing of the house, a pleasant little room overlooking the deep
shady glen from whence rose the constant music of the ever-rippling
burn.
As Charlie sank into the big armchair near the fire Max pushed the
cigar-box towards him. Then he seated himself, saying:
"Now, old fellow, what are we to do? Marion must be found."
"She must. But you've failed, you say?"
"Utterly," he sighed. "She was discharged from Cunnington's--
disgraced!"
"Why?"
Max shrugged his shoulders. Both men knew well that the reason of the
girl's disappearance was the shame of her dismissal. Both men knew also
that by lifting his finger Sam Statham could have reinstated her--or
could at least have had inquiry made as to the truth of what had really
occurred.
But he had refused. Therefore both were indignant and angry. During
the next half-hour they discussed the matter fully and seriously, and
were agreed upon one main point, that Statham had acted against them
both in refusing his aid to clear the unfortunate girl.
"Whatever fault she has committed," declared Max, "the truth should be
told. I went to him acknowledging my love for her and beseeching his
aid. And yet he has refused."
"Then let us combine, Max, in trying to discover the truth," her brother
suggested. "Marion shall not be cast aside into oblivion by these
drapery capitalists who gain fat profits upon the labour and lives of
women."
"You may imperil your position with Statham if you act without
discretion," remarked Max warningly.
"I shall do nothing without full consideration, depend upon it. Statham
refused his assistance, therefore we must act for ourselves."
"How? Where shall we begin?" asked Max.
His friend raised his palms in a gesture of bewilderment.
"Look here, Charlie," said the other in a confidential tone. "Has it
not occurred to you that there may be a method in old Statham's
eccentricity regarding that house of his. Now tell me, what do you know
of its interior? Let's be frank with each other. You have lost both
your sister and the woman you adored, while I have lost Marion, my
well-beloved. Let us act together. During these past weeks I've been
thinking deeply regarding the mystery of that house in Park Lane."
"So have I, many times. I only know the ground floor and basement. I
have never ascended the stairs, through that white-enamelled iron door
concealed by the one of green baize."
"Where does old Levi sleep?"
"In a room at the back of the kitchen--when he sleeps at all. He's like
a watch-dog, on the alert always for the slightest sound."
Max paused for a moment before making any further remark. Then he said
in a quiet voice:
"There are some very queer stories afloat concerning that place,
Charlie."
"I know. I've heard them--about mysterious people who enter there at
night--and don't come forth again. But I don't believe them. Old Sam
has earned a reputation for being eccentric, and his enemies have tacked
on all sorts of sensational fictions."
"But I've heard lately from half a dozen sources most extraordinary
stories. Up at the Moretouns' at Inversnaid the night before last, they
were talking of it at dinner. They were unaware that I knew Statham."
"Just as the gossips are unaware that the persons who come and go so
mysteriously at the Park Lane mansion are secret agents of the great
financier," Rolfe said. "Of course it would not do to say so openly,
but that's who they are. The allegation that they don't come forth
again is, I feel confident, mere embroidery to the tale."
"But," exclaimed Max with some hesitation, "has it not ever occurred to
you somewhat curious that, so deeply involved in Servian finance,
Statham has never sought to solve the mystery of the doctor's
disappearance? Remember, they knew each other. The doctor, when he was
in power at Belgrade, was probably the old man's cat's-paw. Is it not
therefore surprising that he has never expressed a desire to seek out
the truth?"
Rolfe held his breath as a new and terrible suspicion arose within him.
He had never regarded the affair in that light. Was it possible that
his master knew well all the circumstances which had led the doctor to
disappear in that manner so extraordinary? Had he really had a hand in
it?
Was he the "friend" of whom Sir Charles had spoken in Belgrade?
But no! He would not believe such a thing. Sam Statham was always
honest in his dealings--or, at least, as honest as any millionaire can
ever be. The man who habitually deals in colossal sums must now and
then, of necessity ruin his opponents and wreck the homes of honest men.
And strange it is that the world is ever ungrateful. If a very wealthy
man gave every penny of his profits to the poor he would only be dubbed
a fool or an idiot for his philanthropy.
He recollected that afternoon when, at work in old Sam's room, he had
mentioned the doctor's sudden departure, and how deftly the old man had
turned the conversation into a different channel.
Until two days ago he would hear no word nor believe any ill against the
man who had befriended him. But the man's refusal to assist him to
discover the truth concerning the charge against Marion or to order her
to be reinstated had turned his heart.
He was now Sam Statham's enemy, as before he had been his friend.
The two men seated together discussed the matter carefully and seriously
for the greater part of the night, and when they parted to go to their
rooms they took each other's hands in solemn compact.
"We will investigate that house, Rolfe," Max declared; "and we'll lay
bare the mystery it conceals!"